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THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


























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THE DREAM 
OF FAIR WOMEN 

BY 

HENRY WILLIAMSON 



“The poor dear was young, and ’aw should the young 
know what us old ’uns know, after suffering?’* 

Philosophy of Martha 


NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 

681 FIFTH AVENUE 






Copyright, 1924 

BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 


All Bights Reserved 



Printed in the United States of America 



To My Friend 
J. D. BERESFORD 


The characters in this book with one ex¬ 
ception are imagined. The exception is the 
character called Peter White. The original 
of the portrait, an adolescent who wrote A 
Document in Hysteria, which is reproduced 
here practically as it was written in 1919 
when it came into my hands, ceased to be a 
few hours after it was composed. 

Skirr Cottage, 

27th Nov., 1923. 


H. W. 



CONTENTS 


PART I: THE WEAVER AND THE FLAX 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. At the Nightcrow Inn. 3 

II. Rats’ Castle.15 

III. The Ruddle Vixen.33 

IV. Silken Threads.42 

V. Debate at the Nightcrow.55 

VI. Flaxen Threads.63 

VII. The Solitary Poppy.71 

VIII. Spell by the Water.82 

IX. Dog Days.98 

X. Whitest Witchery.109 

XI. Midsummer Night’s Dream.124 

XII. At the Nightcrow Inn Again .... 130 

XIII. To Fiddlestone.144 

PART II: THE SCARLET THREAD 

I. 19 July, 1919.153 

II. 19 July, 1919 ( Continued ).168 

III. 19 July, 1919 ( Continued ).194 

IV. 19 July, 1919 ( Continued ) .203 

ix 


















X CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

V. 19 July, 1919 ( Continued ) .208 

VI. Guest in the House.238 

VII. A 1919 Theatrical Entertainment, and the 

Departure of Julian Warbeck .... 288 

VIII. Eveline and Mary.304 

IX. A Little Dinner Party.323 

X. Heavier Burden.328 

XI. Departure of Major D’Arcy Fairfax . . 346 

XII. The Pathetic Knight.363 

PART III: THE BROKEN WEB 

I. Dream Tryst.375 

II. Departure of Captain Collyer .... 384 

III. Dolor Decresit.391 

IV. The Visit to Rookhurst.403 

V. Before Noon.422 

VI. A Document in Hysteria.431 

VII. The Departure of Peter White .... 440 

VIII. After Noon.443 

IX. Vesperale.456 

Valediction ..462 















PART I 

THE WEAVER AND THE FLAX 


. . . who sighs 

Amid this starless waste of woe f 
To find a pathway . . . 



THE 

DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


CHAPTER I 

AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 

One Friday evening towards the end of May, in the 
year 1919, a one-eyed labourer known as Brownie in 
the North Devon hamlet of Brakspears St. Flammea 
was sitting before a tankard of ale, with his elbows on 
the long oak table of the Nightcrow Inn. He was a 
thin man, in a worn black coat splashed with mortar 
and without a collar, wearing a decayed hat with the 
brim turned down and pulled so low over his eye that 
the black moustache seemed to be growing from a 
circle of gloom. For half-an-hour he had been talking 
about a lady he had met that evening, and telling his 
companions what she had said about a young gentle¬ 
man living alone in a cottage near the hamlet. 

Other men were seated on wooden benches round 
the polished oak table, relaxing after the day’s work 
in the fields. Talk had stopped while the landlord lit 
the paraffin lamp and hung it on the bent nail beside 
the wall clock. The low flame misted the glass, but 
slowly and evenly the blur rolled down the globe, leav¬ 
ing it clear and bright. A man called Tom Fitchey 

3 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


4 

asked for another quart by rattling the pewter pot 
on the table. It was pay-day, and many shillings were 
in his pocket. The landlord came back from the barrel 
room with the ale, and placing it before Tom, took 
the shilling with a word of thanks, and turned up the 
wick of the lamp. 

“Have a drink, Tagur, midear, : ” said Brownie in a 
voice hoarse as a crow’s, but with the low crooning 
tone of a wood pigeon’s notes. The man addressed as 
Tiger was sitting beside him. 

At the invitation of his friend he drank a draught 
of ale. Earlier in the evening the two had been down 
the cliff-paths on the north side of the headland, col¬ 
lecting the eggs of herring gulls. 

“Her were a bootiful maid, her were,” said Brownie, 
reflectively, “and I could have sworn her were a vixen, 
asleep in the zin.” 

Some time later, when the Nightcrow Inn was filled 
with men and dogs, the young gentleman mentioned 
so frequently by Brownie opened the door and stepped 
from starlit darkness into an atmosphere of growling 
talk, spitting, rank tobacco smoke, and banged pewter 
pots, through which glowered the orange-sooty flame 
of the paraffin lamp. He entered so quietly that 
Muggy the hamlet wit, sitting in his usual comer-seat 
under the wall-clock, did not notice that the subject 
of his story was in the bar. Muggy raised his voice 
almost to a shout, so that all might hear the joke. 

“That’s as true as I’m sitting here. The young lady 
says to me, when I says to her that the gennulmun 
were living by himself in Rats’ Castle, ‘Well, Muggy/ 
her says, ‘what be the gennulmun’s name—Lorcl 
Tornsox?’ ” 


5 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Brownie, “Mis’r Meddlesome 
be a praper Lord Tomsox—worse nor I be.” 

The young man at the door hesitated, then said 
gaily, “Evening, Brownie!” 

“Gorbrugge!” gasped Brownie, “if Mis’r Meddlesome 
bant hereabouts!” 

A chorus of Evenun, zur\ came through the tobacco 
mist. The landlord standing near touched with his 
pipe stem what looked like an enormous shiny horse- 
chestnut above his eyes, for his bald head was a sun¬ 
burnt brown. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Maddison, zur,” cried old 
Muggy from his corner; “no offence intended, zur. I 
beg your pardon, Mr. Maddison.” 

Old Muggy had been round the world; no man in 
the parish was more polite. 

“I was just repeating, sir, what a lady visitor to 
Croyde zaid to me this morning when I took the lady 
a telegram. Her wanted to know, zur, where you lived, 
and I told her Rats’ Castle!” 

Shouts of laughter bestirred the air. Silence was 
instant, for Muggy had held up his hand. From the 
corner his face, shiny like an old apple, smiled beyond 
the smoke. He wore an old tweed fishing cap, a 
black shirt, a crumpled collar and a frayed tartan 
tie knotted as though it was a bootlace. 

“ ‘And what be his occupation, Muggy ?’ her zays. 
‘Looking after sick birds and beasts of the fields, miss, 
I zays, ‘and also study-ing of many books.’ ” 

“ ‘A pity he hasn’t studied his face in the glass, 
Muggy!’ her says; beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Maddi- 

“Ho, ho, ho!” bellowed Brownie, full of ale, “dang 


6 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


me if her haven’t got sharp eyes, Mis’r Meddlesome, 
even if you haven’t got a sharp razor, midear!” 

The Nightcrow Inn was filled with the loudest laugh¬ 
ter. In the space of the door leading to the barrel 
room appeared the three faces of the landlord’s wife 
and daughters. About the tenant of Rats’ Castle they 
were most curious. He stood with his back to the 
door, tall and smiling. He had brown hair and a beard 
of lighter hue, and was dressed only in a faded khaki 
shirt, flannel trousers tom by thorns and brambles, 
and old shoes. Clasped in his right hand was a staff 
of hazel, with a fork at its top end. 

“What be you drinking, zur?” asked the landlord of 
the Nightcrow Inn. 

“A quart of ale, please.” 

“Thank ee, zur, you’m welcome,” floated the answer 
as the short plump man went through the low door¬ 
way to the barrel room. 

“Mis’r Meddlesome, I hope you aren’t o-ffended, 
zur?” said Brownie in his hoarse, soft, croodling voice. 

His single eye, very gentle, regarded him with 
mournful affection. The answer of the young man 
was to toss over his tobacco pouch, with a reassuring 
“Of course not, Brownie.” 

Brownie finished his third quart, banged the pot, 
and standing crookedly between bench and table raised 
his arm and began to sing—a thing he did when he had 
swallowed three quarts. 

“ Ruddle-coloured din , 

Be the best colour under th ’ zin ” 


he croaked. 

Many faces turned to look at the young gennulmun. 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 7 

who wondered why they were looking so knowingly 
at him. 

“You see, zur,” cried Muggy from his corner, “our 
parents had a zaying that 'Mousey-colour din, or hair, 
be the best colour under the zin, or sun,’ and Brownie 
have altered the colour of the hair in the saying, do 
you see, sir?” 

Again they laughed, and he looked puzzled. Brownie 
leaned anxiously over the table, beckoned mysteriously 
with a broken-nailed finger, and stared earnestly at 
him. He went near him. 

“Mis’r Meddlesome,” his whisper was almost a shout, 
breathed warmly into his listener’s ear, “Mis’r Meddle¬ 
some, zur, don’t ee be o-ffended at what I be going 
to tell ee, will ee, now?” 

The young man shook his head, and the black mous¬ 
tache tickled his ear. An argument about the slack¬ 
ness of the Parish Council in repairing roads had been 
started by two yeomen farmers, and many loud voices 
were speaking at once. 

“Now, midear, listen on what Brownie be a-going 
to tell ee. It be something peculiar. Do ee know 
Corpsnout? ’Twas there I saw her. Ruddle vixen. 
Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho! ” 

Brownie had fallen back upon the bench, tilted his 
head, and given forth a noise. His mouth opened wide 
and he chuckled to himself at nearly the top of his 
voice. He stopped, stared earnestly, beckoned once 
more, craned over and croaked, “Her spoke to me con- 
firmationally when I told her I knowed ee fairish well 
—begging your pardon, zur.” 

“Your ale,” said the landlord of the Nightcrow Inn, 
behind him. He took the swilling pewter pot, shouted, 
“Good health” to him, and drank deeply. 


8 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Mis’r Meddlesome, zur,” beckoned Brownie, who 
had been regarding dismally the tilting of the mug, 
“Ee weren’t o-ffended at what I did tell ee, were ee 
now?” 

“I am very interested, Brownie.” 

Brownie made a cawing whisper through his hands. 
“Now, I saw the ruddle vixen on Corpsnout northside 
this evening with Tagur, and her said to me confirma- 
tionally her wanted to meet ee, midear!” 

Brownie sat down, and tried many times to wink 
his glass eye at William, then seeing that the gennul- 
mun was not heeding him, he began to sing. William 
was lost in a reverie, the noise and movement faded 
out, like green fields when a cloud covers the sun. He 
had forgotten Brownie and his information; it had 
made no impression on his mind. The look on his 
face in repose was familiar to many of the drinkers 
in the Nightcrow Inn. He seemed to be excited by 
his thoughts. His eyes became animated, as he stared 
unseeing past the wall-clock. He came only once a 
week to the village to buy the simplest and cheapest 
foods; why he chose to live in a dilapidated cottage 
so far from the ways of men, whether he had parents 
or wife, no one in the hamlet knew. Many had seen 
him by day on the hills, usually lying on his back 
with his face to the sky. He avoided most men, but 
whenever he met them he was courteous and had a 
cheery word for them, by which invariable behavior 
they declared him to be a “praper gennulmun,” al¬ 
though he was friendless and obviously poor. 

The dominant traits in his mind being increased by 
drink, Brownie’s altruistic desires began to assert them¬ 
selves, and unasked he was bestowing upon the as- 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 9 

sembled company the generosity of a song. He beat a 
funereal time with his empty tankard. 

“Zeagull, zeagull, 

Vly away over th* foam, 

And tell-on my daddy Ah’m waiting to hear 
When, 0 when, he he a-cumin' home! 

Zeagull, zeagull, 

What's that Ah hear you t y say f 
That stame-ship he foundered 
And all hands he droon-ded — 

O zeagull! O-O-O-O! 

And the sloghorn of the stame-ship was blowin’ for 
two months in Combe Martin Bay—Yaas!” 

The chanty ended in Brownie shouting. The listen¬ 
ers roared with laughter, and some of the younger men, 
who had served in the Army, cheered and cried for 
more. Brownie's pronunciation of the words steamship 
and foghorn always caused merriment. The singer 
swayed backwards and forwards on his legs and looked 
solemnly at them, his moustache like the wings of a 
swift inverted, then banged his tankard on the table 
and stretching across to the gennulmun, bawled, 
“Yaas! Ruddle vixen, Mis’r Missom, d’ee hear? Her 
said her were a-wondering who ee were, her did! Nice 
li’l maid for ee! You’m a-right, midear, proper li’l 
maid her be. Her hair be bootiful and red, like a ruddle 
pool in th' roadway after rain. I thought as how her 
were a vixen at first, lying in th’ gorse! Just right for 
to make ee happy, midear. Give ee twenty babies, 
midear, like my missus gave me. Yaas!” 

Brownie guffawed and banged the quart mug; the 


10 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


landlord cried, “Not so much noise, chaps, please!” 
and came forward to William. 

“Beggin your pardon, zur,” he whispered, “but have 
you zeen anthing lately of Jack o’ Rags?” 

“I saw him this afternoon. He’s moving out of the 
mine into the shed, I believe, now that it is warmer 
Two days ago he left some gulls’ eggs on my door¬ 
step. He often leaves rabbits, and bundles of drift¬ 
wood. I believe he thinks I’m some sort of a god to be 
propitiated by offerings!” 

The landlord nodded as though he quite compre¬ 
hended. 

“Of course, it may be unusual, zur, but I can quite 
understand. For I reads a bit myself. Oh, yes, I’m 
a master reader. All of the best and most interesting 
Sunday papers I reads—the News of the World, Lloyds, 
and The People* I reckon I could be a writer misself, 
I’ve learn’t so much by studying them papers, only I 
haven’t the eddication or the jennus.” 

“But genius, or even education, I should imagine, 
might handicap you for work on those papers. It 
would be such a hindrance! ” suggested the other, smil¬ 
ing. The landlord looked scared as though by the diffi¬ 
cult and dark ways into which the conversation was 
taking him, but he made a valiant attempt to follow, 
with the result that the talk was somewhat laboured 
and disconnected. 

“That’s what I be telling my missus, Mister Madd’- 
zun, I zays, may be peculiar, with his beard—beggin’ 
your pardon, zur.” 

“Oh, quite!” 

* These papers, so popular with the semi-educated people, do their 
best to rival one another in display of accounts of murders, divorces, 
crimes, etc. Naturally they have the largest sales in town and 
country alike.—H. W. 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 


u 


“He may be peculiar, I says, with his beard, and 
his animals and living in Rats’ Castle all alone, but I 
reckons there be something to it! 'Him so good look¬ 
ing/ her replies, 'what for do he wear a beard? No 
young lady would look at un!’ 'P’raps he doan’t like 
young ladies/ I says, 'but animals instead/ 'It isn’t 
natural, Albert/ she says, 'for a young gennulmun not 
to like young maids. He looks that melancholy at 
times, what comes of being too much by himself!’ 
What be that Broonie was telling you on?” The land¬ 
lord of the Nightcrow Inn spoke in a low and confiden¬ 
tial voice, and changed the conversation with relief and 
with a suggestion of apology in its tone, as though 
timorous of a rebuff. 

“He was speaking about a ruddle vixen that he saw 
upon the headland. It turned out to be a girl. I 
haven’t yet quite understood his remarks.” 

“Well, zur, it be after this way. Broonie has been 
full of it all the evening. Broonie and Tiger went on 
the headland after seabird’s eggs. The two were going 
to the rocks below down the slope, when Broonie 
stopped and pointed to a ruddle patch in the furze 
bushes-” 

“Yaas!” broke in the voice of the sitting spectator, 
“I stoppit an pointed: 'Looksee/ I says, 'Looksee, 
now, Tagur, midear, did ee ever see before vixen slaep- 
ing in th’ sun?’ That’s as true as I’m a God-fearing 
man, Mis’r Meddlesome. 'Wish I’d a gun/ zays Tiger, 
when up looks the vixen and zays, plain as a straw¬ 
berry, '0, do ee?’ her says, lofty as you please. A most 
bootiful young lady her were. Us got into converza- 
tion wi her. Her weren’t proud, not likely! 'And 
where be th’ young gennulmun with a beard?’ her asks 
me, confirmationally. 'And he had some bootiful 



12 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


spannuls. Tell him I would like a pup from him/ her 
says. Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.” 

Brownie rolled sideways in merriment. 

Two more labourers entered, acknowledging respect¬ 
fully the gennulmun’s greeting. The landlord came 
back, balancing the three quart pots, and shouting for 
his daughter to lend a hand. A strapping girl with a 
long yellow plait tossed over her shoulder came in 
answer to his call, and thenceforward till closing time 
she was refilling mugs and winding up the tin-horned 
gramophone behind the bar in response to shouts of 
“another chewne, midear.” Muggy, the recognised wag 
of the hamlet of Brakspears St. Flammea, began to 
recount a joke about Gladstone at the top of his voice, 
while The Tiger and the other whist players under 
the lamp continued with their card-playing and bel¬ 
lowed criticism of their partners’ mistakes. Several 
men began playing rings for quarts; Brownie was 
snoring under his hat, while his ancient lurcher dog 
snored by the pipe-stove. The hands of the wall-clock 
crept nearer to the hour of departure, and again he 
heard the smoothly thick tones of the landlord beside 
him. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, zur, but th’ young lady be 
living at Cryde Bay, across the Corpsnout Headland, 
ye know. Hers a married lady called Mrs. Fairfax.” 

The young man drank some more ale. The vigour 
of the home brew was warming, and he made a resolu¬ 
tion to visit the Night crow several times a week instead 
of once. He would be able to dispel loneliness by 
coming here—but he would not, however; for social 
habits, even those of the remotest seaboard, were not 
for him. Nothing must interfere with his soaring 
thought: not even a weak craving for the company 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN 


13 


of simple, sincere men. The warmth of the ale com¬ 
municated itself to his head, and he brought from 
his pocket a soiled book and glanced at the open page. 
The smoke, the heat, the noise, all these floated away; 
until with almost the effect of a physical blow the 
landlord's voice obtruded: 

“ ... So there be some talk o' watchers going 

forth at night. Two more ewes were worritted last 
night over Brakspear Down. Muggy here, he reckons 
there be a dog worritting th' shaep. You've seen noth¬ 
ing of a slinketty mongrel, have ee now zur?" 

“No.” 

“I were only wondering,” informed the landlord, 
“because you'm about walking a good lot. Funny 
thing, now, old Voley th’ shepherd do zay that he has 
found some sort of tracks, only the ground be too 
hard to take a likeness. Something must be done, 
reckons. There be nigh on a zgore of lambs and ewes 
worritted this season! All their heads be tom tarrible!” 

“Perhaps it is the work of several dogs. Sheep 
worrying is a stealthy business, you know. Cases are 
on record, I believe, where actually sheep dogs have 
slunk away at night and tom lambs, returning in dark¬ 
ness. Traps have been set by the shepherds, but the 
dogs by day have observed their location and so 
avoided them.” 

The landlord looked frightened. “Zome so zay it 
be a ghostie, zur. Do ee credit ghosties, now? A mor¬ 
tal number of men were hanged in this district less 
than a hundred years agone. Muggy, now, he do say 
that their ghosties be back in revenge!” 

“It be gone ten, feyther,” interrupted his daughter. 

“Drink up, chaps!” cried the landlord, in fear of the 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


H 

constable who every evening was known to be stand¬ 
ing outside in the lane. “Come on, boys. Ten o’clock.” 

Hilariously yet swiftly they got on their legs and 
clumped to the door. Brownie and his dog heaved past 
the gennulmun, Brownie crying “Gude-night midear, 
gude-night,” his old lurcher coming to lick his hand. 
One by one they crowded to the doorway, while carry¬ 
ing on their growling arguments. He followed the last 
labourer, bidding good-night to the landlord and 
thanking him for the gift of two dead mice, then passed 
into the shuffling crowd outside. 

The lane led westwards to Falcon Goyal and the sea. 
As he went gaily in the keen air he felt an exultation 
at the thought of his free life. He joyed in the night 
beauty. Like a gold curlew’s bill, the new moon curved 
in a violet sky, the simmering roar of the tide grew 
suddenly, and the goyal was before him. He quitted 
the cart track and followed a path through gorse and 
rising brake fern to the cove below. His way was lit 
by a globe of silver, Venus reluming the pale evening 
vapours over the sea. By his side the goyal stream 
murmured round the stones and its bubbles chimed in 
the little pools, melodic with the lone rattle of an 
evejar and the booming of dor-beetles. Rabbits fled 
from quiet nibbling at his swift descent, and some¬ 
where a roosting bird twitted a drowsy alarm. 


CHAPTER II 


rats' castle 

He stood for awhile near his cottage, tranced with a 
reverie of the stars shining faintly in the waterpools 
of the rill, and the wind among the blackthorns. This 
earth beauty was but a medium by which he might 
reach the realm of dream. He sighed as he took one 
last look at the surge white and gleaming in the cove, 
and opened the door. Three floppy warm things 
awakened from sleep nosed joyfully their god's ankles, 
and Grannie Gordangle, an ancient daw perched upon 
the back of a chair, croaked softly. 

“Down, Tim Tatters! Down, Billjohn! Down, 
Hereward!" he ordered the puppies, and lit a candle. 
The room was small, without carpet or mat; there 
was a wooden table, a broken armchair, and a soap¬ 
box. By the solitary illumination he perceived Becky 
and Pie the kittens on the bookshelf, and Isaak the 
otter cub curled up in a corner with the milk bottle 
still held between its paws. He could not see Diogenes 
the carrion crow but discovered Oswald the broken¬ 
winged seagull in the rusty oven. Diogenes the carrion 
crow was probably upstairs with his cousins Jerry the 
jay, and Moony Matthew the owlet. It was necessary 
to remove Becky and Pie from their retreat on the 
bookshelf, since he wished to read before going to bed. 
The volumes had once been tidily arranged on the 
15 


16 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

shelf, but after the custom of books they soon leant 
on one another, incapable of self-support. There were 
the volumes of Richard Jeffries— The Amateur 
Poacher, Bevis, Field and Hedgerow, Amaryllis at the 
Fair, The Pageant of Summer, and The Dewy Mom; 
there were books by Thomas Hardy and Joseph 
Conrad, and John Masefield’s Gallipoli; beside these 
there were the poets, Thompson, Keats, Blake, Shelley, 
and a living poet named de la Mare, whose verses he 
had come upon in a shell hole—sodden, yellow, and 
rat-gnawn, but how the thoughts of a brother-man 
had consoled him! 

Now he took a volume of Blake, and three lines he 
read, sufficient for a foothold from which his mind 
might spring into space where was neither sound nor 
form nor colour, where like a White Bird in a shining 
void it spread its wings and was free. In the vivid 
light he saw quicker than conscious thought how little 
and false were the main ideals of mankind. He saw 
the earth as something small and swung in space, some¬ 
thing which was there for a while only. He saw man¬ 
kind a smudge on the surface of the earth, a smudge 
which had strayed from the control of the impulse 
which swung from the shining void but which was 
striving desperately to control it once again. This 
vision, which came to him in an instant of time, caused 
a look of intense and eager excitement in his eyes. It 
passed, and under its influence he paced the room, 
speaking to an invisible listener. 

“Once there were crowds of cheering men m London 
and New York, in Paris, in Rome, and in Vienna; 
and following the cheering was joylessness of nations 
subdued and earnest, all praying to the same God, 
all believing in their national righteousness; and in 


RATS’ CASTLE 


17 


spite of the praying men continued to die and to be 
maimed—both were reliefs from the desolation and the 
despair of war. In that war my puny body suffered 
and sweated and was tempted to destroy itself, but 
something extra in my spirit, in common with a million 
others, made me keep on, though I was ill-made to 
bear with fortitude physical pain and bodily stress.” 

He was an unremarkable figure, with his high shoul¬ 
ders on which was set a thin neck supporting a small 
head covered with hair tangled and unkempt. The 
front teeth of his upper jaw, while not projecting, com¬ 
pletely covered the front teeth of the lower jaw, and 
the mouth was wide. A commonplace face, in repose, 
that would not be looked at twice, unless one saw the 
eyes, a singular and beautiful feature. As he turned 
away from the book they caught and h.eld the rambling 
light of the candle, and smouldered in the gloom of 
the kitchen. They werelipbrimming with a deep warm 
brown, mysterious, translucent, and tender. 

“0 Great Spirit of Earth,” he cried in agitation. 
“No man wanted to die, yet the bones of the slain 
girdle the earth, and the footsteps of women follow in 
pride and grief and prayer to the wilderness where 
they lie. And so men struggled in ancient Greece and 
Babylon, in Assyria and Egypt—in all the civilizations 
that have been. The sand hides the skulls of their 
priests, and hawks nest in the walls of the temples not 
yet fallen. Their Gods are dead, and today all nations 
pray to a God; yet these things remain. Yet I should 
fight again if our nation were threatened; and so would 
some other young man like me by the Mediterranean, 
by the Pacific, by the Rhine. But in my soul I know 
it to be wrong, for I have floated in the shining void 
of the Great Earth Spirit. I will destroy the false 


18 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

ideals of mankind, the false deity, and when I am 
stronger I will make all men hear my voice!” 

He went to the cobwebbed window to watch the 
sinking of the moon with the evestar into the western 
ocean. 

“It is awfully lonely,” he sighed, another mood pass¬ 
ing over him, “but I cannot turn aside from the way 
I must walk. I must wait till I get power to express 
my vision. How many more years in Rats’ Castle? 
Will my army gratuity last? My food only costs about 
seven shillings a week—I must be more economical, 
and buy no more meat—I shall have to eat rabbits, 
hedgehogs, and fish only. Do you think I am mad, or 
that I have delusions? No, I am just an ordinary chap 
with a mind that is keener than most. People will not 
heed the delusionists nowadays. 0 Here ward, my dear, 
what a weird little yowl! No, I won’t have the three 
of you clawing my trousers. Down, little puppy dogs, 
down! Now, don’t he on your backs as though I were 
a bullying swine. And don’t lick my face, please, I’m 
not a plate. Lie on your proper bed—that pair of 
trousers over there. Billjohn, my dear, faithful old 
Billjohn—heavens, I’m getting sloppy and sentimental 
over this three-months-old pup. Faithful old Bill¬ 
john, indeed!” 

Habitually he talked to his birds and animals, as if 
they understood what he said. He sat at the open door 
beside the puppies, on the cold stone floor, and taking 
a book out of his pocket opened it at a remembered 
page, read a thought that inspired him whenever he 
felt acutely sad and lonely. 


RATS’ CASTLE 


19 

How willingly I would strew the paths oj all 
with flowers; how beautiful a delight to make 
the world joy oils! The song should never be 
silent, the dance never still, the laugh should 
sound like water which runs for ever . 

“How beautiful a delight to make the world joyous!” 
he repeated in a rapture, staring at a star burning 
above the high valleyside. A wave crashed on the dark 
beach, another boomed in the seal cavern at the cove’s 
mouth. He stood up and leaned against the doorpost, 
staring into the darkness for several minutes. When 
he closed the door behind him he felt tired. 

Tim Tatters, Billjohn and Here ward were lying in 
the comer upon the cast pair of trousers. He knelt 
down to wish them good-night, and they rolled over 
on their backs and struck bashfully at the god’s face 
with their paws, at the same time trying to wet his 
nose with their tongues. He patted them, but as this 
produced signs of canine giggling he bade them gruffly 
to lie down; the gruffness caused them to beat an 
agonized tattoo with their tails upon the old trousers, 
so that a little cloud of dust arose and made the god 
sneeze: and they sprang up and in an ecstacy licked 
his ears. 

Becky and Pie, the kittens, were purring upon the 
only armchair in the room, an affair with three and a 
half legs and most of its spiral springs burst from an 
underneath that shed each time one sat on it a flutter¬ 
ing of horse-hairs, feathers, dead moths and mice- 
gnawn fragments of newspapers. His arrival at Brak- 
spears St. Flammea in a tottery jingle three months 
previously had coincided with the end of a village 


20 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


auction, and this armchair was the only article that 
remained unsold. Indeed, the only offer elicited by the 
hyperboles of the auctioneer had been a bid of one 
shilling sixpence three-farthings: he sold the thing by 
private treaty for half-a-guinea to William, who in the 
kindness of his heart had paid a stumbling Brownie 
five shillings to carry it with his bag down to the 
cottage. Several times he had thought of throwing 
it into the sea, but he knew he would not be able to 
buy another. However, it was useful as a bed for the 
kittens and as a musical treat for the puppies who 
constantly worried the disembowelled springs and so 
created a not unpleasant harmony. 

Pie was a black-and-white kitten, very tiny and 
gentle, with narrow ears upstanding like black and 
withered mistletoe leaves. He had been born in a 
hollow tree, and was still half wild. Brownie's wife 
had given it to him to keep away rats and mice. As 
Pie's size after six months of life was between that of 
a mole and a stoat, it was perhaps understandable that 
nothing larger than a wood-louse had been captured. 
Becky was a yellow-and-plum coloured female kitten, 
very affectionate and unselfish, who spent half her life 
in nursing the harumscarum Pie and washing its fur. 
Pie, he often thought, was Beck's dolly, satisfying her 
immature maternal cravings. When, however, the 
dolly refused her tender offices with spits and splutters 
she would endeavour to nurse the puppies. These 
humourists rolled her over and over and pranced 
around her, begging her to run away and be chased. 
Resenting this, Becky came sorrowfully to her amused 
master and craved sympathy in the form of goat's milk. 

He bade good-night to his companions, lifted the 
latch of the door hiding the stairs, and went to his 


RATS’ CASTLE 


21 


bedroom, where on a rusty bed was heaped a pile of 
bracken on which two brown Army blankets were 
spread. The walls were bare of shelf or picture. There 
was a wooden washstand, with pitcher and basin. 
Burnt ends of rush-lights stuck in a bottle on the wash- 
stand. In one corner of the room was an old khaki 
field-valise, with W. Maddison, Reserve Cavalry, 
printed thereon in letters of cracked white paint. As 
he had conjectured, Diogenes the crow was on the rail 
of the bed with Jerry. The candlelight showed them 
hunched and sleepy-eyed: they shivered their wings 
and demanded food, Diogenes (whose proper roost was 
in a small tub outside) with hoarse gabbling, and 
Jerry the jay screaming his hunger. 

“It's not breakfast time yet,” said their host. 

“Where’s Moony Mat?” 

He whistled, until on soundless wings a snowy appa¬ 
rition glided through the window, and perched with 
solemn stare upon his shoulder. It had one leg, for 
William had found it in a gin, and amputated the frac¬ 
tured limb at the knee. It was about ten inches high, 
with a white downy breast and eyes jetty like cherries. 
An Elizabethan ruff outlined its face, featherlets of 
pale gold and ash and brown forming the outline, 
of a heart. He gave it the dead mice saved for him 
by the landlord of the Nightcrow Inn. Moony Mat¬ 
thew seized the first in its beak, tossed it gracefully, 
caught it by the head, and swallowed till only the tail 
remained. This was rolled appreciatively in its mouth 
before it was swallowed. The second was made to 
vanish in the same manner, after which, with a bub¬ 
bling cry Moony Matthew spread its beautiful wings 
and floated into the dusky summer night. 

When he was undressed he peered through the small, 


22 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


open window to regard the night’s mystery. Already 
Venus was quenched in the waters that shook in a 
wan stream of gold up to the dipping moon. A bat 
passed erratically near his head, taking the midges 
that thronged the sparrow-tunnelled fringe of thatch. 
Movement on the shingle and a dark blur by the phos¬ 
phoric surge made him stare intently; but it was only 
Jack o’ Rags, his zany friend, wandering about after 
his crazy fashion. Then opening the blankets he got 
into bed and blew out the candle, feeling too tired to 
read. The absolute darkness had hardly dissipated 
and shown vaguely the limewashed walls when a pat¬ 
tering of feet on the stairs indicated the arrival of the 
puppies. They came eagerly and stood on hind legs 
by the bed, entreating his adored companionship. This 
was their invariable method—to wait before coming 
up till he was in bed and, therefore, disinclined to get 
out and beat their ribs; they implored so humbly per¬ 
mission to be near him that he lifted them up and 
hurled them at the bottom of the bed, where on his 
ankles and each other they settled down with deep 
sighs to slumber. Soon afterwards a dainty flutter 
of feet on the dry dusty floorboards announced the 
kittens, who with easy leap and timid steps reached 
his neck and insinuated their lithe bodies under the 
blanket and into the hollow of his back, whence came 
their contented purring. Moths brushed eerily his 
head with feathery wings, rats squeaked and galloped 
in the thick walls, beetles emerged from wainscot 
cracks for their nocturnal creepings, mice Scampered, 
the stream sang its wander song: to the forsaken music 
of the sea he drowsily listened, and soon sank away 
into a sweet slumber. 

A trickle of happiness was falling in the white room 


RATS’ CASTLE 


23 

when next morning he awoke. Two swallows were 
perched near their mudded nest on one of the ceiling 
beams. Near the wall and on the same beam was 
Moony Matthew, solemn and reposing. Jerry the jay 
stood on the pillow and was searching industriously 
his master's hair. Observing the stir of awakening, 
Jerry opened his bill, raised his crest, expanded and 
contracted the irises of his eyes, and screamed for 
food. Diogenes was not in the room. 

He leapt out of bed and put on a pair of shoes. The 
kittens stretched themselves, and Hereward, Billjohn 
and Tim Tatters yawned. As they closed their mouths 
they yowled plaintively. 

“Get up, you lazy boys," cried their nude master, 
seizing the blankets and carrying them down the creak¬ 
ing stairs. Spiders darted away at the thuds of descent. 

The puppies rushed headlong after him, trying to 
pull the blankets away. In the lower room he was 
greeted by Grannie Gordangle, Isaak and Oswald, the 
latter making raucous noises as he dragged a wing. 
Isaak moved swiftly over the stone floor, and turned 
nervously with a sweep of its brown rudder. He picked 
up the cub and it stared for a moment at him. Its 
head was wide and flat, its ears flush with its fur, the 
eyes small and beady and dark. Isaak struggled after 
its brief inspection, pushing away with its webbed 
pads and shaking its long whiskers. He placed it on 
the floor, and went outside into the light. 

The morning was fresh, for the sun had not yet 
breasted the hill. He flapped his blankets, just as the 
three puppies rushed out of the cottage with the old 
pair of trousers. They rolled over, growling and kick¬ 
ing, eager to air their own bed after the fashion of the 
god. He flung the blankets on a bush of whitethorn 


24 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

and ran to the sea verge. Here the wavelets lapped a 
beach of broken shells with a sound of bells innumer¬ 
able and elfin and drowned long since. Quickly his 
shoes fell off. His skin was a golden-brown. Pausing 
only to shout to the puppies, he waded out and plunged 
under water, then swam to the cove's widening, fol¬ 
lowed by Isaak, who dived and splashed around him. 
The agonized barks of Billjohn, Here ward and Tim 
Tatters on shore awoke echoes in the cliffs that towered 
above the green water, and a score of daws glided 
from hereditary ledges with sharp ejaculations. He 
turned on his back and rested, regarding the sable 
flock circling against a sky of azure. Just at that 
moment the sun bent its first ray over the far hillcrest, 
rendering frailly transparent the wing-texture of two 
gulls drifting above him. The little trees of the hill 
line shrank into a golden flame, which permitted his 
gaze but a brief moment. 

“Coming, boys," shouted William, then put his head 
under water and commenced to beat along with the 
crawl-stroke. This was exhausting work, and soon 
he ceased and swam in on his side, the beady eyes in 
the bewhiskered mask of Isaak often near his own, 
for the cub loved him. 

“Here I am, my faithfuls," he said to the prancing 
boys as he emerged dripping and flushed. They sprang 
up to their god, they grovelled before him, they en¬ 
tangled themselves round his feet, they picked up dried 
seaweed and killed a dozen imaginary milkydashels * 
for him, but the only reward from their god was, “Shut 
up, you silly asses," which pleased them tremendously. 


* On chasing a rabbit for the first time, the spaniels, who had been 
weaned on goatsmilk, saw only its white scut, or tail, as the terrified 
beast dashed away. 


RATS’ CASTLE 


Mrs. Large and Mrs. Larger, the goats, were visited 
when he had put on shirt and flannel trousers, and 
their chalkwhite milk transferred to a little pail sand- 
scoured and burnished. This operation was hindered 
continually by Tim Tatters, the rowdy leader of the 
trio, who attempted alternately to pull the beard of 
Mrs. Large and to drink the milk taken from Mrs. 
Larger. Skilfully he dodged the blows of the playful 
god while Here ward and Billjohn from a secure dis¬ 
tance yapped encouragement. He was not agile 
enough to avoid the ill-humour of Mrs. Large, however, 
and after a butt in the ribs fled tail-down and yelping, 
pursued by the other two, who tried to console him by 
tugging his floppy ears in opposite directions. A snarly 
fight ensued, which was terminated by a rush for home 
lest Oswald, Isaak, Becky, Grannie, Pie, Jerry and 
Diogenes should eat all the breakfast. 

He made a fire of furze roots and boiled a kettle. 
A continuous uproar came from his subjects. 

“OUTSIDE,” yelled the god, and all except Gran¬ 
nie, a privileged ancient, made for the door. They 
returned immediately, and recommenced their requests 
for breakfast. He went to the pantry and took from 
the shelf, littered with plaster and defunct cockroaches, 
a huge pot. In this was his food, consisting of stale 
crusts of bread, rabbits, ox bones, hedgehogs, laver 
seaweed, potatoes and fish, all boiled up together. 
Into a large dish he poured the cold stew; there was a 
commingling of wings, heads, and feet, and noises of 
sucking, munching, cracking and pecking. The birds 
squawked, the cats hissed and spat and boxed with 
their paws, the dogs growled and bristled to each other, 
the otter cub ate unmolested. When they had finished, 
William ate his own breakfast. 


26 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


After the meal he cleaned his teeth with a green 
willow stick, one end of which had been frayed by 
beating on a stone. Then he went on the beach, and 
lying on his back looked up at the sky through his 
hands till he felt himself tenuous and impersonal as 
the blue space over him. He felt a peace, a concord¬ 
ance with all things. 

The strand was deep with brittle shells, all empty 
and quiet. There were whole shells among the shillets 
and fragments and coloured splinters—broad sunset 
shells, washed with the western summer sky-hues; 
there were tiger scallops, and pod razors; little milky 
arcs, and wentletraps like the conical hats of mediaeval 
women; the pelican’s foot and the tiny reddish pheas¬ 
ant shells; tusk shells—horns for fairy-winding—and 
the cowries, wherein murmured a perpetual sea- 
chafing; pearl-like tellins and lovely fragile bubble 
shells. There were caps of liberty—like those worn 
with the tricolour, but shaped before man tipped his 
arrows with flint. There were turret shells, and the 
lime-built house of the rare violet snail. Spring tides 
had left an irregular brown riband at the top of the 
beach near the broken lumps of grassy earth, made of 
driftwood bored by worm and barnacle, the bark of 
pine spars from distant shipyards, grey gull-feathers 
and the blue and scarlet claws of the fiddler crab, rusty 
tins and dried corpses of the spined sea-urchin. 

Nearly every morning he had lain here in the sun, 
while the calm wavelets rang the shells, and the rills 
last bubbly run passed him to the sea. There were 
elvers under the slaty stones, and many hours he had 
spent in trying to catch them as they wriggled away 
when their hiding places were lifted. It was a simple 
joy to watch them, like the pleasure of finding strange 


RATS’ CASTLE 


27 

wildflowers on the hillside. For he was a convalescent 
after the consumption of spirit which had ravaged 
extreme youth during the days of war, when nothing 
assumed definite form in the hectic mists hiding a world 
of painted quicksands ever shifting and changing, and 
ever sucking down human life. On these painted 
quicksands he had seen only the crude colours of 
ephemeral excitement, where the standards and codes 
of rational and matured men were meaningless, for 
they were applicable only to the firm ground of reality. 
With many another, he had been blown by every wind, 
a feather on the shore of the world, with but one thing 
constant in his mind, an intense yearning to be loved 
by Elsie Norman. And the sick hopelessness of his 
desire had caused him to make a refuge in imagination. 
Whenever he saw her during infrequent visits to Rook- 
hurst he became dry-throated and trembling with cold, 
but so great was his need and desire that he never lost 
hope; a spark always remained in the fire of his heart, 
and when older men, his friends, told him that he did 
not know what love was, his misery would turn to a 
pride of fury, and he would laugh bitterly and speak 
no more of her. 

There had been moments when he had wanted to 
assoil himself, as a hunted stag soils in its pit, yet al¬ 
ways he had been too fearful and disinclined; but 
often he had sought relief in drunken revelry with the 
comrades of his mess, until a certain point was reached 
when he would leave them and wander away in the 
night, until sought and found by certain hilarious souls, 
his sworn friends, who would drag him back with a 
cry of “Here's our old weary Willie mopin' again, I say, 
you fellows, and declarin' no one loves him! Drinks a' 
round, Willie! Where's 'at waiter?" Sometimes he 


28 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


was not sought, and for hours he would watch the gun- 
flashes up the line in dark excitement, or go down to 
the picket lines to be with the “squadroon” horses. 
Drink made him moody, but never quarrelsome. He 
did outrageously foolish and rash things, but never 
harm to a friend. On such occasions as when he might 
forget his despair, he could be exceedingly comical, 
imitating for the delight of the ante-room various 
regimental “characters” with a drollery and young 
conceit that endeared him to most of his brother offi¬ 
cers; although a few of them disliked him and were 
curt with him, and in these cases he always attributed 
the fault to himself; he brooded on the reason of their 
dislike, and became subdued and miserable. 

The splendid, bitter days of the war were often re¬ 
called as he lay on the shell beach in the sun, among 
dried bladder weed, black brittle dogfish eggshells, with 
tame animals and birds and rusty tins around him. 

Suddenly he leapt up with a shout of happiness, and 
played with his animals, tumbling them about. As 
suddenly he tired of them, and taking his hazel snake- 
stick—a staff thick and straight, with a natural fork 
at one end, he ceased to speak to himself and started 
to walk away, followed by the puppies, the cats, the 
birds, and the otter. Moony Mat remained on his 
beam. 

Years before the Great War, the lord of the manor, 
wishing to increase his revenues so diminished by 
taxes, tithes, betting, drinking and gambling, had in¬ 
stalled machinery in the goyal for the mining of iron. 
When this had been done, miners had tunnelled into 
the hillside and sunken their shafts. The mountain 
was rich in iron ore, and deposits of tin, silver, copper, 
and manganese were found, but in such small quanti- 


RATS’ CASTLE 


29 


ties as to be commercially worthless. When the crush¬ 
ing and washing processes had been working for half 
a year a difficulty which somehow had not been con¬ 
sidered before manifested itself. There was no means 
of removing the excellent ore. Rails for a trolley 
system to the valley top were therefore laid, when 
the question of freightage to the railway station, dis¬ 
tant seven miles, caused a cessation of work. New 
carts were bought, new horses, and carters from dis¬ 
tant hamlets engaged. The miners were turned into 
quarry men, masons and labourers, to work in Brak- 
spears St. Flammea, Villagers talked of the coming 
prosperity. New cottages were built, and several of 
the workers took wives, when it was forced upon the 
squire that the wages paid out, the cost of fodder, and 
the railway charges to the port of Barnstaple were far 
greater than the money received for the ore. He con¬ 
tinued the hillside borings for a further eighteen 
months, hoping to find some of the gold rumoured 
immemorially to be lying in that district of North 
Devon adjoining Exmoor. The complete failure to 
find anything but iron and negligible amounts of other 
metals was responsible for his complete abandonment 
to whiskey and his death a year later. The estate was 
sold. For many years afterwards the failure of the 
mining was discussed in the Nightcrow Inn, and the 
labourers of the hamlet shook their shaggy heads and 
lamented anew the death of the old squire. The 
farmers who had bought the land were dour and un¬ 
generous: there was nothing like a gennulmun, they 
agreed. Every springtime more borage, hounds- 
tongue, nettle, hemlock, and other rank weeds flour¬ 
ished round the machinery shed; the iron roof grew 
more rusty and took on the hue of the red stone heaps. 


30 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Brambles and wild roses formed a natural screen for 
the holes gaping in the valley sides; rabbits at mating 
time chased one another around the machinery, till a 
stoat caused a terrified scamper. Up the chimneys the 
screech owl roosted, emerging from the stock at sunset 
like a white bloom magically unfolded. A fierce and 
wandering boar-badger, driven from his old home in 
Rookhurst beechwood, passed a winter in the valley; 
soon a holt was tunnelled, and it was deeply within this 
that the snow-badger licked the lusty whelps which her 
mate was so ferociously forbidden to approach. Here 
in the bracken the fox slunk unmolested, here the fear¬ 
less tiercel swooped to his kill. The ragged creature 
that mouched about the buildings or slept in the engine 
house by day was ignored by the predatory creatures, 
since he was no more harmful to themselves than an 
oddmedodd. He, too, was a hunter, taking the rabbits 
that crouched in terror at his crawling stare, and snap¬ 
ping their necks with his enormous thumbs. From the 
borings into stilly twilight came the greater horseshoe 
bats, seeking dor-beetles and large moths; Jack o’ Rags 
came out with them. The dark glittering eyes set in a 
black hairy face, the shag-ears, the large nose mis¬ 
shapen and discoloured by grains of black powder—in 
the dusk he came out like a monstrous bat shorn of 
wings. Rarely did he appear by day, and when first 
William explored the loft over the engine house Jack o > 
Rags leapt past him, his long knotted arms out¬ 
stretched, and disappeared. William for the moment 
was alarmed, but the zany obviously had been the more 
terrified. Brownie at the Nightcrow Inn that evening 
had assured him that he was harmless—a poor mazed 
miner whose reason had left him ever since he had been 
buried in a premature explosion during blasting. 


RATS’ CASTLE 


31 


“His zister did take Jackierag to Exixir, way inland, 
do ee zee, Mis’r Meddlesome, but he come back sure 
enough. He runned away from un! Aiy, aiy! When 
a man be born in th’ parish, zur, he can’t abear zstrange 
parts. Long way to walk, nigh on fifty mile, but Jack 
o’ Rags corned back the day after, surenuff!” 

Brownie’s voice had a rise and fall when he spoke 
quietly that gave him a mournful impression of the 
idiot’s life. He pondered what strange influences had 
been responsible for his primitive, nomadic existence; 
what physical change in the brain had cast the man 
back thousands of years to the time of caves and the 
discovery of fire. Perhaps when certain cells were 
rendered inoperative his mind could not respond to 
impulses that an ordinary man received: perhaps it 
could receive only the crudest impulses—and so he 
could fascinate rabbits like a wild beast, and dwell like 
one in his underground lair. 

“I am so happy,” he said to himself as he passed a 
yellow wagtail perched on a brown stone in the runlet, 
“and I shall live here for ever. What a silvery note 
that wagtail has. I expect his.nest is somewhere near. 
By Jove, there is Jack o’ Rags.” 

He ceased to talk aloud, and paused to stare at the 
figure sleeping near the track that led up the hill, 
through heather, ferns and dwarfed holly bushes. Tim, 
Tatters growled, while Billjohn and Hereward slunk 
behind. Tatters barked sharply, the mazed fellow 
sprang up, glaring wildly about him. Billjohn and 
Hereward retreated still further, with their tails down, 
and Tim Tatters rushed away as he had from the goat 
that morning. But on seeing William the wild look 
died out of his eyes; he gave him a dead rabbit. 

“Thank you,” replied William, but the idiot turned 


32 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


and disappeared into the bracken. He harled the rab¬ 
bit, hanging it in the middle of a thick thorn tree, then 
climbed higher up the track, until he reached the top 
of the hill. All the animals and birds except the dogs 
had gone back to the valley. It was pleasant to recline 
here on the sward, seeing the tiny cove a long way be¬ 
low with its grey boulders washed by the green waves. 
The goyal of thorn bushes and undergrowth narrowed 
as it rose for half a mile inland, and near the sky he 
could see the first cottages of the hamlet. There was 
no sound up here save the far roar of the sea beating 
against rocky cliffs of the coast, the whisper of a pass¬ 
ing linnet, and the distant yelps of nesting gulls. Be¬ 
hind him the Atlantic was blue under a sun that had 
flamed since April without a cloud to shield the earth 
from its fire; sea and sky were fused by the heat till 
there was no horizon, and distant sailing ships seemed 
to be making skyey voyages. Into this still prospect of 
sea and sky the Corpsnout was thrust, its long patch- 
work body protruding unevenly for two miles until the 
massy head rested on sea-laved paws. For centuries 
the headland had been a haunt of wreckers, who tied 
lanthorns to cows grazing there, to deceive the sailors 
into thinking they were binnacle lights of ships at 
anchor. Many a wooden vessel had had her back 
broken by the rocky paws of the Leap. A buoy now 
swung in the racing tide, but sometimes in winter a 
tramp or fishing trawler, lost in fog or driven by storm, 
had her plates ripped out by the black claws of Bag 
Leap. 


CHAPTER III 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 

He rose, and walked on for an hour, joying greatly in 
the sun and the air. Over the remote tranquillity of 
landscape rose the blue hills of Dartmoor, forty miles 
southwards. The wild bees sang as they burred past to 
the thyme: the wind in the tufts of thrift stirred the 
pink flowers: somewhere a titlark was singing as it 
dived from the sky. Stonechats in summery vesture of 
brown and black perched on sprigs of furze and clacked 
their alarms to nestlings hidden in the brambles. 

He was approaching the Corpsnout when his musings 
w r ere interrupted by the behaviour of the puppies, some 
yards in front of him. They were standing still, point¬ 
ing, their backs stiff, their tails stuck out. Billjohn 
gave a querulous growl and turned to see the god’s face, 
and, reassured, the three trotted forward. 

He saw a girl walking across Brakspear Down, 
which from where he was standing sloped gently down¬ 
wards to the neck of the Corpsnout. She was a quarter 
of a mile away, and the top-part of the dress she wore 
was very white in the sunlight. He sat down and 
watched her slow progress among the sheep on the 
brown pasturage. The rising heat caused the fields and 
hedges to quiver brilliantly, and the thin cries of the 
flock rose with the torrid air. Sometimes she stopped; 
sheep were following her, and their thin bleats streaked 
33 


34 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the quivering glassy brilliance of day. He saw her 
clamber over a gate, until she was hidden from him in 
a sunken lane called Stentaway. He rose and went to 
the lane by another way, but when he lept down into 
it he could not see her. 

He walked up Stentaway lane, which was deep and 
cool, shaded by bushes of blackthorn, bramble, and 
dogwood. There were many flies here, and baby rab¬ 
bits crouching under the leaves of dock and cow 
parsley. He called the pups to heel, forbidding them 
to touch or chase. The lane was steep, but he walked 
swiftly. It bent to the right at the top, so that the 
sun was in his face; there was no shade, except where 
the shadow of the telegraph pole was thrown obliquely 
across the lane. The single wire, connecting the coast¬ 
guards’ lookouts, made no humming; it was absolutely 
still in the air; a yellowhammer sat on it higher 
up, singing at intervals to a brooding mate in the 
hedge. 

The lane led to Cryde Bay, but he turned sharply 
to the right up a rocky cart track, vaulted over a gate, 
and was on the first grazing field of the Corpsnout. 
The puppies, glad to be off the heated dust of the lane, 
rushed away over the brown sward. He walked on; 
his direction was now westwards, with the southern 
sun on his left cheek. A sheep track led past furze 
bushes curiously stunted and rounded like green puff¬ 
balls, in the roots of which rabbits had made their 
buries. Stonechats scolded him and the dogs, and a 
sparrowhawk dashed away from a stone wall on which 
it had been plucking a linnet. Larks were above, rain¬ 
ing down their joy. Constantly daws called jack, jack, 
the sound mingling with the scrambling cries of gulls 
which had their nests far below the steep slope of green 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 


35 

bracken and gorse, where the slope ended in ragged 
cliffs that dropped sheer to the rocks and the sea. The 
daws flying above the blue water were black as burnt 
straws. Here on the headland the morn air was fresh 
and sweet. 

The stony track rose gradually to its highest point, 
and he was able to see the north side of the Corpsnout 
for nearly two miles. Sound of iron on iron, a faint 
metallic clenk, made him look down the lefthand bend 
of the path. She was nearer than he had imagined, 
about thirty yards away, and having fastened the gate 
she turned and strolled on, turning at the questioning 
yapp of Billjohn and Hereward, but swinging round 
again immediately. Her blouse in the intense sunlight 
was a brilliant white against the yellow charlock of the 
oat field; her hair was auburn as the bars on the wings 
of a passing butterfly. She swung a sunbonnet on her 
wrist. 

He watched her, then sat down and looked across 
three miles of azure water to Morte Point, seeing the 
coast of Wales beyond and faintly far away. He was 
uncertain what to do. Blue sea and fawn sands below 
would mean a cool and sparkling swim, and afterwards 
a sunbath and a lovely dream, lying on Vent ion sands 
while the young kestrels chattered in their eyrie in the 
cliff, and the pippits dived singing to their nests in the 
tussocks behind the grey boulders. A feeling of rest¬ 
lessness came to him, and he despised himself for fol¬ 
lowing her, thinking to himself that it showed a weak 
character. He determined to go down to the sands and 
jumped on his feet, but took a last glance at the girl. 
She was no longer to be seen. 

He hesitated, and decided not to go down to the 
sands. Under his hand he looked eagerly for her. The 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


36 

pups followed him towards the gate and the oat field 
choked with charlock. 

Just beyond the corner of the field a swarded cart 
track led through a brake of blackthorn to a small dis¬ 
used quarry, where once he had flushed a tiny and rare 
falcon called a merlin. It was a small quarry where 
grew wild ivy and stonecrop, and earlier in the year, 
bluebells and primroses. Brambles of blackberry and 
wild rose, no longer crushed by cartwheel, stretched 
across the path. He had a kettle hidden in a thorn in 
this quarry; often he had made a fire here, and brewed 
nettle tea. As he jumped over the briars, looking for 
her—“That’s funny,” he said to the dogs: “the ruddle 
vixen has gone to earth somewhere! Now, Tim Tat¬ 
ters, cast about for the lovely vixen’s scent!—On, little 
boys, leu, leu, leu—find her line!” 

The puppies pranced and whimpered. Hereward 
spoke. The one-and-a-half couple gave tongue. Turn¬ 
ing round with an enormous and guilty start, he saw 
her sitting in the shade of an overwhelming rock, her 
chin rested on her hand. She looked at him, neither 
welcome nor resentment in her eyes which seemed to 
hold a wild gentleness and an absence of personal re¬ 
gard that made him ashamed. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said. 

“Oh, don’t do that,” she replied. “Are you the 
shepherd after a lost sheep, or something? Or is this 
the opening meet of your foxhounds?” 

“Yes,” he replied. “I am Lord Tornsox, M.F.H. 
May I cap you?” 

“I will give a subscription with pleasure if you 
promise to get a haircut and shave,” came a serious and 
impersonal reply. “You’re so young to wear a beard, 
Mr. Meddlesome.” 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 37 

He bowed ironically. “I am called Lord Tornsox of 
Rats’ Castle. And this spaniel, madam, is my eldest) 
son—the Honourable Tim Tatters. You see-” 

Out of the rock just below her feet hartstongue ferns 
were growing, and realizing where she was sitting his 
buffoonery changed to alarm and he cried, pointing 
with his stick: “I say, don’t move suddenly, will you? 
There’s a nest of little robins under that arch of ferns. 
Be awfully careful!” 

“I know,” she answered with a swift sidelong smile. 
“I found them the other day. The mother is on the nest 
now. Don’t be so worried! But, to ease your mind, 
I’ll come down.” 

She rose upright, and he noticed the grace of her 
poise as she prepared to jump. She leapt from a height 
of five feet, alighting with her hands on his shoulders, 
and falling against him, so that he put his arms round 
her and held her. 

“I say, have you hurt yourself?” he enquired, with 
tremendous anxiety, still holding her. 

“Not really,” she replied. “I was trying to show off, 
I suppose.” 

She sat down, and began to play with Billjohn. 

“This little d-doggie is a sweet thing. What do you 
call him?” 

“Oh, that’s Billjohn. He was the nestledraff.” 

“The nestledraff?” 

“The baby of the litter, you know. The Devon folk 
pronounce it nissledraff. It is usually the most affec¬ 
tionate.” 

“Oh, I I-love Billjohn,” she replied rapturously, 
picking up the puppy and resting her cheek on its head. 
Billjohn tried more than ever to show his affection by 
licking her ears. 



38 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“You can have him/’ said William, contemplating 
her curve of cheek. She was holding the puppy against 
her throat and chin, regarding him all the time with 
glances of friendly eyes. 

“That’s very kind of you/’ she replied, “but I am 
certain that you must be very fond of him, Mr. Meddle¬ 
some.” 

“That old Brownie always calls me Mis’r Meddle¬ 
some, but darn ee if I shall let any one else call me 
that! Noomye!” 

She laughed, saying, “How quaint you are! But 
what is your name, then?” 

“My name is Maddison,” he told her, “of Rats’ 
Castle,” he added. 

He stood above her. Billjohn struggled away, and 
bounded to his master, who now had the whole upward 
regard of the blue-gray eyes. He could think of noth¬ 
ing to say, but the feeling of awkwardness had gone. 
Under the frank amity of the look he felt a pleasing 
content, and sometimes looked shyly at the loveliness 
of the face of the girl who sat on the sward. Her nose 
was straight, and her lashes were long and dark, and 
curved in profile—a view of which he was often per¬ 
mitted, as she turned her head swiftly to look at various 
objects; a sailing ship in the bay, a lizard on a sunny 
rock, a greenfinch among the furze. The lower lip was 
full, and red like a wild raspberry set in a complexion 
sea-tinged and scarcely freckled. She rested the weight 
of her turned shoulder on an arm uncovered to past the 
elbow; even as he noticed this she rolled higher the 
white silken sleeve. 

“I love warmth,” she explained. “Your arms are 
brown, aren’t they? I can see the sun glinting on the 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 


39 

little gold hairs of your forearm. Somehow mine will 
not get deeply tanned like yours.” 

She held her arm for his inspection. He examined 
it with an air of impersonal interest, dreading lest he 
might offend her. He replied courteously, “The 
Greeks, you know, made their youths and maidens run 
races in the sun, for it was their ideal to have perfect 
bodies as well as lofty minds.” 

“My mind isn’t very perfect,” she said. “I am afraid 
I am not clever at all. In fact, I’m damned ignorant, 
as the Devon folk say of Cornish Cousin Jack. But 
you are a poet, aren’t you? I simply adore poetry.” 

“Do you?” he enquired eagerly. “I am glad I met 
you. Do you like Shelley?” 

“Oh, yes. The Cloud! T change, but I cannot die.’ ” 

He was enthusiastic, and asked her if she did not 
agree with him that Francis Thompson, by virtue of 
his best poems, was among the greatest poets ever 
born?” 

“Yes.” 

“Which poem do you like best?” he asked, suddenly 
very happy. 

“Oh, all of them!” 

“I haven’t read them all,” he told her. “You know 
that magnificent Corymbus for Autumn, and The Mis¬ 
tress of Vision?” 

“Very beautiful, aren’t they?” she agreed, looking on 
the ground. The arm outflung rendered smooth the 
shoulder under its silky covering. Just so, he thought, 
might a maiden of ancient Greece recline after her 
dance in the violet meadows. 

He desired to discuss further the golden music 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


40 

fetched to earth by that strayed angel, but before he 
could continue she had said: 

“Do you come here every day?” 

“Most days. Often I go out on the headland, and 
watch the peregrine falcon lording it over the whole 
bird-world.” 

“Hawks are cruel things, I think.” 

“They kill to live, like everything else. Except, per¬ 
haps, some men, who live to eat.” 

“You look as though a good square meal wouldn’t 
be amiss, anyhow! Have you got anyone who cooks 
for you?” 

He shook his head. 

“I believe you must be half starved.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

He stared skywards at a gannet, a great fishing bird 
from Lundy Island. 

“Are you a poet?” she repeated. 

Again he shook his head, and murmured in con¬ 
fusion, “No.” 

“I should have thought you were a poet; but per¬ 
haps you are, without knowing it. Isn’t the sun 
glorious? Doesn’t it make you feel that you would 
like enormous teeth to bite into it? How about that 
for the subject of a rhyme?” 

He laughed, and the girl smiled into his eyes; he 
felt very happy. “What is your real name?” she de¬ 
manded suddenly. 

“William Maddison.” 

They both looked up at the gannet, which had made 
a harsh cry. 

“Are you living down here?” he asked. 

“For a little while longer.” 

“Only a little while?” 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 41 

“Yes. I expect so.” Then she added: “Do they call 
you Bill?” 

He hesitated before replying that he used to be called 
Willie. 

“Willie,” she repeated, as though testing the sound 
of the abbreviation. “Willie—Willie. No, I don’t like 
Willie. You should be called Billy.” 

“That’s better than Meddlesome or Tornsox, any¬ 
way.” 

She laughed, so sweetly, he thought. “May I call 
you that?” 

“What, Tornsox? But you do, don’t you?” 

“You want whipping, young man.” 

The gannet dived with a splash after a fish, trans¬ 
fixing it with its beak. They watched it excitedly. 
He sat beside her. 

“I say, what’s your name?” asked William when it 
had flown away. 

“I am Eveline Fairfax,” she replied briefly, scratch¬ 
ing her head and glancing at him mischievously. 

“Oh, I see.” 

The puppies were stretched out on the sward burnt 
and parched by the droughty heat. Jackdaws winged 
by overhead, and she looked up while he stared at her 
blue-gray eyes, radiant and mirthful and fringed with 
dark lashes. Her teeth were white as a young terrier’s: 
how soft was her throat, how vivid her hair; and she 
would no longer look at him. She was staring over the 
sea, where the fishing boats in the Bristol Channel 
seemed to be hanging in mist and sky. Becalmed on 
the windless blue, the sails looked as though the 
faintest breeze would lift them as brown butterflies 
adance on airy nothingness. 

“It has occurred to me,” she went on whimsically, 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


42 

not looking at him, “that a child of your years—let me 
see, I should imagine you to be about three and twenty 
—wearing a beard—a beard curiously uneven, let me 
tell you. It occurs to me that there is a mystery about 
your monastic and secluded life down here. Now, don't 
be offended—or rather, do not let your sensitiveness 
cause you to be offended." 

“I know I must look rather terrible." 

“No, I do not mean that exactly. What I think, how¬ 
ever, is that you should shave it off at the earliest op¬ 
portunity. I am sure you would look much nicer." 

He felt a fool, and said so. 

“Oh, don't feel a fool, Mr. Maddison. It is only a 
pose, isn't it?" she suggested. 

“Oh, no," he hastened to assure her. 

“Now I have wounded the poet’s feelings, but I con¬ 
fess to a malicious satisfaction." 

“I suppose you think that my living down here alone 
is a pose, too?" 

“Not deliberate, I am sure, Mr. Maddison. But are 
you 1-living alone?" 

“Except for a few birds and animals—some I found 
broken, and mended them." 

“Oh, you dear thing," she said in a voice low and 
full of charm, while she gave him a shy glance through 
lowered lids. 

“Do you have any visitors there?" 

He shook his head, and looked mournfully on the 
parched sward, thinking of his life's change since the 
war. 

“And have you no friends or relatives?" 

“I have a father somewhere, I think." 

“You only think! What a vague young man it is! 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 


43 


Do tell me some more. I believe you are a poet after 
all, and that the paternal relative hoofed you forth be¬ 
cause you were discovered writing rhymes by candle¬ 
light." 

“Oh, no," he replied, vaguely and aloofly. 

“Have you any brothers or sisters, or a mother, Mr. 
Maddison?" 

“My mother died when I was born." 

“Poor child," she murmured, and in the quiet they 
both heard the distant cries of sheep, pitiful cries for 
water that quavered into the heated air. The hill 
springs had long dried up, the dewponds evaporated. 
A small flock was crossing the base of the Corpsnout. 

“The sky does not care whether they live or die," he 
exclaimed in a tone that surprised her, “and the same 
indifference is shown to mankind. How much longer 
will man dumbly turn his eyes to an imponderable 
deity? The only thing that cares for us is ourselves. 
And when a man of vision does appear, he is either 
destroyed or neglected. Listen, I will read you some¬ 
thing!" 

He pulled a book from his pocket, and read with a 
wild fervour. 

My heart looks back and sympathises with all the 
joy and life of ancient time. With the circling dance 
burned in still attitude on the vase; with the chase 
and the hunter eagerly pursuing, whose javelin 
trembles to be thrown; with the extreme fury of 
feeling, the whirl of joy in the warriors from Mara¬ 
thon to the last battle of Rome, not with the 
slaughter, but with the passion—the life in the pas¬ 
sion; with the garlands and the flowers; with all the 


44 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


breathing busts that have panted beneath the sun. 
O beautiful human life! Tears come in my eyes as 
I think of it. So beautiful, so inexpressibly 
beautiful! 

He finished reading, and turned away. 

“There are tears in your eyes, too/’ she said. 

“He was always very poor and very earnest—like 
Christ,” he said, wistful and aloof once more. 

“Is that why you wear a beard ?” she enquired. “But 
that’s a beastly thing to say, isn’t it? Are you hurt?” 

He shook his head, thinking that she would not 
understand how the remark had hurt, not himself, but 
an Idea. With a dull feeling he compared the remark 
with her loveliness of form. 

She despises me, was his thought, as he stopped to 
watch the sheep whose cloven feet rattled on the hard 
ground. They were scraggy, gasping in the heat, fixing 
their eyes upon him as though beseeching green grass. 
With pain he noticed that the flanks of several were 
crawling with maggots, that even now heavy-winged 
flies were laying the eggs which shortly would hatch. 
The sheep showed no fear of the dogs: they had come 
to him, who appeared as a godhead, for relief: while 
overhead in a sky blue and hard as a sapphire burned 
the sun. One lay down, a froth on its nostrils. Its 
sides were raw. Its woolly skin flapped on its side like 
stiff leather. Maggots had eaten it loose. He turned 
away from the agony of the dying animal. Was there 
a beneficent deity directing all earthly endeavour— 
caring for the things it had created? Six months since, 
and half the world was a shambles, men destroying one 
another. 

“There is no help anywhere,” he murmured to him- 


THE RUDDLE VIXEN 


45 

self, with a sudden choking flutter of the throat: “and 
yet there must be some purpose in Beauty other than 
reproduction. Sky, give me some light, that I may re¬ 
veal to men that they are all brothers—that they must 
strive no more among themselves!” His eyes brimmed, 
and yet he was not weeping. The sudden emotion, 
from his innermost mind, caused moisture to start: he 
blinked, and brushed his eyes with his sleeve: and felt 
calm once more. Mrs. Fairfax was forgotten. 

At that moment a flock of chittering starlings 
wheeled over his head, and alighting on the animals’ 
back, commenced to devour the maggots. William, 
now contemplating with his conscious mind—the work¬ 
aday mind—experienced no distress:* sheep were for 
man to eat for his meals. But he felt a relief; then he 
saw that she had turned and was waiting for him. The 
thought of talking to her gladdened him, and he ran 
after her, while the puppies barked, and tried to tear 
pieces of cloth from his trousers. Hereward succeeded 
in ripping his left leg just as he got to her. He 
regarded it ruefully. 

“I say!” she said. 

“Yes?” he waited. 

“Let’s go across the Corpsnout to Cryde Bay, and 
bathe! Then I’ll sew up your trousers. I’m so glad 
you didn’t beat your puppy for doing it.” 

“I shall have to swim in my clothes.” 

“Oh, dear, that must not happen, Mr. Maddison. I 
don’t want to ruin that exquisite crease in your 
trousers. Besides, the dye might run in the water, and 
they would lose that beautiful hue of the earth.” 

“I think you are a very sarcastic person.” 

“Sorry if I hurt your feelings.” 


4 6 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“No, of course not. I feel rather a scarecrow to go 
to Cryde Bay with a lady.” 

“No one of the slightest importance to me or you 
lives at Cryde Bay. And I’m not a lady.” Her smile 
seemed perfectly serious. 

“Well, do you mind if I leave you here and come 
over after lunch?” 

“If you don’t forget to come.” 

“I shall not forget. Au revoir!” 

“Au revoir, Mr. Willie Maddison. Now, don’t put 
on that rueful air. It is really a very good name.” She 
turned and walked down the path, while he went back 
to Sealion Cove because he had forgotten to dress 
Oswald’s wing. He walked effortlessly, and sang most 
of the way. Linnets in the air piped reedily with 
golden upstrokes of song, there was the twitter of gold¬ 
finches among the furze-bloom, the whistling of a 
blackbird in the goyal, the flicker of a careless peacock 
butterfly. He thought no more about the drought and 
its miseries—he thought of a cloudy splendour that 
gave out joy, of perfection arising before the gaze of 
his mind. 


CHAPTER IV 


SILKEN THREADS 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she exclaimed, 
meeting him on the sands of Cryde Bay. He wore a 
pair of trousers less ragged, and a clean shirt. His hair 
was brushed and his nails were cut. He noticed that 
she had powdered almost imperceptibly her face, and 
her lips were touched with a suggestion of scarlet. A 
dark blue bathing dress was slung over her shoulder. 

They sat on the rocks, while she kicked off her shoes 
and began to remove her stockings. He watched the 
gulls patrolling the surf till she had finished, and then 
offered to carry them, stowing them carefully in his 
belt. 

“Away! Loathed shoon,” she laughed, flinging them 
on the sand. “Excuse awful sight of big feet, won’t 
you?” 

He realized that he was intended to make a reply, so 
he said that they seemed perfect and small. Eveline 
held one foot up for his inspection, extending pink toes. 

“They are lovely feet,” he said gravely. 

“Is that why you wrinkle your forehead?” 

He made no reply, and she said: 

“But, of course, I know—to a man like you the idea 
is more vivid than reality.” 

Slowly he said, “It isn’t really, but, you see, when one 
has-” 


47 



48 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Life is cruel to the beauty it creates,” she inter¬ 
rupted. “Did you notice those poor sheep?” 

Her words, and the suggestion of an impersonal sad¬ 
ness in her charming voice, made him look quickly at 
her, but she appeared unconcerned at his regard. 
A dead guillemot, sodden bundle of black and white 
feathers, lay in a pool slowly being filled by the tide. 
She touched it with her foot, with seeming carelessness, 
and it rolled over in the water. 

“Well, what are you thinking?” 

“I was thinking of what you said about life being 
tiuel. Has it been cruel to you?” 

“Oh, no. I am resigned, that is all. To the cage of 
life, maybe. But do not let me worry you with my 
troubles.” 

“Have you any?” he asked. “You won’t worry me, 
really. I would try and understand—oh, you will 
laugh at me.” 

“No, Mr. Maddison, of course I will not,” she replied, 
touching his hand. “One does not laugh at sincerity.” 

His heart was filled with such happiness that he 
wanted to shout and leap into the air. He had found 
a companion at last. He saw that her eyes were soft 
and bright, her gaze sweetly given for him. 

“You are like a lark that sings for joy,” he said in a 
low voice. “I can only stand below and watch you, and 
listen.” 

“I’m going to paddle,” she replied, and walked away. 
He sat still. He looked at the few people on the sands, 
and then realized that perhaps he had given offence. 
He got up and wandered in the opposite direction, 
away from the sea whither she was going. A disused 
limekiln was built on the rocks by highwater mark, and 
he went to inspect it. Sea-rocket and samphire grew 


SILKEN THREADS 


49 


on the stones beside it. Here he sat down, and after 
a few minutes went back to the rocks where they had 
been talking. 

When later he rejoined her, she did not appear to 
notice his return, but continued to walk quietly in the 
shallows. Disregarding his trousers, he waded in a foot 
of water, and said hurriedly that he had brought her 
stockings. 

“Your dogs are looking for you,” she answered, turn¬ 
ing to look at the puppies who dared not follow him. 
“Don’t distress them any more. Besides, your best 
trousers are getting wetter every second. Can’t you 
roll them up? I say, you didn’t mean that about the 
lark, did you?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Fairfax, I did really.” 

“I thought you were trying to be funny. Forgive 
me, Mr. Maddison, please. Do you think me horrid?” 

He felt joyful once more. Here was one who be¬ 
lieved as he did, one whose freedom of spirit was prob¬ 
ably inherited from some far ancestress, one who was 
not a type crushed into inanity by civilization. How 
sublime was the adventure, how the gleaming wavelets 
washed her feet: he could sing aloud for the happiness 
that life had given him. It was sufficient to be with 
her, to dream of her perfection, to feel that she would 
be a great friend; and with a sudden departure of joy 
he remembered that she was married. But he said: “I 
think you are sweet, and I—I like you.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, parted her lips, and 
lifted her eyebrows, giving him a sidelong glance of 
pretended indifference, purposely exaggerated, as a 
child might. “I’m married,” she said. 

“I know,” he stammered. 

“Who told you?” 


50 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“I heard it at the Inn.” 

“Oh!” 

“Is that what you meant by being chained?” 

She said, “Oh, no,” but immediately his mind con¬ 
ceived her to be a tragic figure; and, seeing his serious 
face, she flipped him lightly on the cheek with her 
bathing dress, and said whimsically: “You won’t run 
away, will you, Mr. Maddison? Shall we bathe? 
Didn’t you get a bathing dress at the store in Cryde 
village as you came through?” 

He told her that he had no money with him. Im¬ 
mediately the smile went from her face and a hurt look 
came into it. 

“Oh, why didn’t you ask me for money, dear boy? 
I had no idea that you might be hard up. Look here, 
can I help you in any way? I haven’t got much with 
me, but in the cottage-” 

His heart was warmed by her generosity. He told 
her that he had never expected to bathe at Cryde Bay. 
In Sealion Cove, he said, he did not need any garment, 
since no one ever came near it in the early morning or 
at dusk. 

“How shocking!” was her simulated reproof. 

“But I can bathe in my trousers,” he said: “they dry 
afterwards in a very few minutes.” 

“Can you swim? There’s a pretty dangerous current 
at half tide. It drowned two people during the war. 
The Claw, you know.” 

“I know,” said William. “I was here with a cousin 
of mine on leave. He’s in camp at Findlestone now, I 
believe.” 

“Phillip Maddison?” 

“Yes, do you know him?” 



SILKEN THREADS 


51 

“Of course I know Phillip! How funny that you 
should be his cousin! Dear old Phea! We are awful 
great pals. I met him at a dance given by his bat¬ 
talion. He was awfully disconsolate, poor old boy, and 
standing about all by himself.” 

They talked about Phillip Maddison, agreeing that 
he was an extraordinary fellow; then decided to bathe. 
“See you in a minute,” she said, and, waving her hand, 
she went towards the rocks. 

They declared that it was the most wonderful bathe 
of their lives. At first he was apprehensive in trousers, 
but immediately she made him forget it by envying the 
tan of his arms and shoulders. 

“I must hold my arms to the sun,” she said, “the sun 
that is the giver of joy. I wish I was big enough to 
bite chunks out of that great gold orb! Tell me, my 
child, is any of my unruly hair coming out under the 
cap?” 

“No,” he answered, going near just to see the soft 
neck. “I wonder if you would do me a favour?” 

“What is it?” 

“Will you let your hair down in the sunshine? I 
think a woman’s hair is so glorious. Let me see it 
shining and free.” 

“It’s very ordinary hair,” she said, “and perhaps you 
would be disappointed.” 

“But please do!” 

“No, Mr. Maddison, I am afraid I cannot. What 
would that elderly gentleman who lives in that green 
house up there think of me? For I have noticed that 
he passes many mornings at an open window with a 
pair of glasses. No, I shall not let you see my woman¬ 
hood’s crowning glory, and I think that if you had used 


52 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

original epithets for its description it would have been 
more sincere: although I know that Rupert Brook is a 
pretty good poet.” 

She spoke in such a droll way, and with such sup¬ 
pressed radiance in her face that, with a wild impulse, 
he put his arms round her shoulders and kissed her 
cheek. Alarmed by the unbreathing stillness of her 
during the shy and, as it were, natural embrace, he ran 
into the shallows and plunged into a curling green 
breaker. He swam submerged as far as possible, and 
then came up, shaking water from his eyes. She was 
just behind him, and swimming with easy overarm 
stroke, breasting the waves and laughing among the 
silver sunpoints of the foam. 

She made no reference to what he had done. The 
salt water darkened her lashes and gave a maiden 
purity to her eyes; two curls of auburn hair were damp 
against her cheeks, and her arms were smooth and 
rounded and white. 

“Oh, I must shout, yell, sing! Hey, old gull, you 
laugh, too! Is there anything so lovely as swimming? 
Do you see Lundy Island on the horizon? I feel that 
I could leap like a salmon into the air and dive right 
under the sea, and come up alongside in a second, fling 
my arm over it and haul myself into the warmth.” 

“Mind, we’re out of our depth,” he warned; “re¬ 
member the Claw!” 

“Now is the supreme moment to die,” she exulted, 
“to be drowned together! Are you a good swimmer?” 

“Yes, fairly.” 

“Well, then, let’s swim out and risk being drowned. 
Are you game?” 

“Yes,” said William, “come on,” turning round and 
taking a few strokes seawards. 


SILKEN THREADS 


53 


“Oh, come back/’ she cried; “I didn’t mean it.” 

“Funk!” he answered, by her side. 

“If you mock me,” she jested, “I will bite you.” 

“When you’ve bitten the sun into small pieces?” 

“Bearded Beast,” she snorted, swimming away from 
him. 

He pursued her, and caught her by the shoulder, 
when she pleaded for grace: immediately afterwards 
telling him in a mocking voice that she liked him to 
frown. 

“Drown me with your firm brown hands round my 
neck, strong man. Bow wow! No, no, I didn’t mean it. 
I was pretending I was the heroine in a story. Oh, you 
are a great rough thing! First you kiss me, then you 
run away like a startled deer, then you push me under 
water. Really, you know, Mr. Maddison, it is not done, 
to duck a lady—I should say an imperfect laidy. For 
how long have you known me?” 

He was alarmed again, but she threw water over him 
and swam away laughing. He chased her with a shout 
of joy, and splashed her, mid entreaties for mercy; and 
so they went on, thinking nothing, hardly realizing how 
they spoke, or what they were saying. They wandered 
three hours on the sands before dressing. Stilly in 
sunny air floated the June hours, and somehow they 
were in a cottage parlour, and Eveline was pouring out 
tea, and her eyes in the shade were lovely and meditat¬ 
ing as those of a child who sits in a meadow singing to 
the blue cranesbill flowers it has gathered. Then their 
glance would soften and go out to him as his heart beat 
proudly for the company of her beauty. .No mortal 
was near them: the cottage-wife was a wraith who ap¬ 
peared and faded. Again they were on the sands, 
wandering by the pools, and standing on the rocks 


54 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

while the tide crept in, maintaining by warm hand¬ 
clasps a steady balance. A flow of birdsong was come 
into the air, and a golden highway was opened across 
the sea; the foam was tinged with purple as though 
along that western ocean road the carousing sun was 
spewing the wine he had quaffed all that day at the 
tavern of the drouthy earth. Venus shone in the 
luminous lower air, a chaste wife watching his return, 
with her the virginal and breastless moon her daugh¬ 
ter. While they watched, he said: “I make up things 
like that to amuse myself.” Eveline, with a little sigh, 
told him that she used to do the same thing, pressing 
with her hand to convey that which words denied her. 
Long was the parting on the hillside, the dread sever¬ 
ance delayed till all the stars were aglitter in the tran¬ 
quil night of the summer. At last, at last, it had to be; 
one more goodbye breathed in the dewfall, one more 
lingering wait, and up the hill he went with his dogs, in 
his head held so proudly high a sweet mazeful wonder 
of loveliness. 


CHAPTER V 


DEBATE AT THE NIGHTCROW 

Light of foot and heart went he, leaving the Corp- 
snout behind as he struck inland over Brakspear Down. 
Somewhere in the towns and cities the clocks ticked off 
tame hours of an artificial life, but here no time existed. 
William strode on, treading fields of starved oats that 
waged a continual war with thistles, fern, vetch and 
bindweed. Sometimes he paused so that he might hear 
the sounds of the quiet night: the hum of a beetle, the 
purring rattle of a far evejar perched on a dead stump 
in the bracken, the snuffling of the puppies and Here- 
ward’s thin whine of enquiry at a rabbit bury. In the 
west over a steely sea the horizon lifted with sunset- 
dark hoverings, the glow of some great conflagration 
beyond the world. Overhead the sky was dyed with 
indigo, and there the same stars winked that he had 
watched from the fields of Rookhurst, from the London 
streets, from Chunuk Bair, from the hills of Picardy. 
Here nothing was between himself and the wheeling 
stars, no smoke or fog, no snarling nightbombers or 
angry-red fireprick of shrapnel. There over the sea 
were Castor and Pollux, the heavenly twins, and yellow 
Capella. There, too, was Spica Virginis the maiden, 
his own bright star, near Corvus the raven and Regulus 
the lion. He remembered the night five years ago 
when he had stood at the edge of Crowstarver’s Spin¬ 
ney and through his tears bidden farewell to the village 
55 


56 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

where the long years of childhood and boyhood had 
passed so happily. Eveline had said that one yearned 
in childhood for the wonderful garden of the grown-up 
world, whereas in reality the tragedy of age was the 
realization that one had left forever a much happier 
garden—in spite of the little griefs and the little 
tragedies. 

A short-eared owl beat with slow flight over his head 
and cut short his retrospection. Suddenly he realized 
that his pets in the cottage had not been fed since sun¬ 
rise that morning. He regarded them with remorseful 
impatience; for to-morrow as early as possible he was 
going over to Cryde Bay. The last cornfield, a rock- 
strewn patch sown with corn and growing with weeds, 
was left behind and the open down was before him. A 
growl from one of the dogs, and he had stopped. Some¬ 
thing was near him: the footfalls ceased with his own. 
He glanced fearsomely behind him, grasped his stick 
more firmly and hurried on. The three puppies kept 
quietly at his heels. Once more he swung round, to 
hear fading in the night a faint padding. 

The puppies regained their spirits and trotted 
around him. He walked on until an abrupt realization 
that the dogs were alarmed made him halt once again. 
They rushed back from something in front, and cow¬ 
ered behind him. He felt as though a brush had been 
drawn up his hair, his jaw went forward, and in a voice 
instinctively rasping he enquired who was there, but 
there was only a sound like a groan bubbling through 
something thickly liquid. He advanced again, holding 
the stick before him. He could make out in the spec¬ 
tral starshine a patch on the ground. Step by step he 
went forward, stopping with fear as the gurgling sigh 
came once more. 


DEBATE AT THE NIGHTCROW 


57 

By the wavering light of a match shielded in his 
hand he saw with relief that it was only a sheep. In¬ 
stantly the gore on the brittle grass informed his mind 
that the mysterious worrier had torn its throat, and 
gnawn one side of its head. A bubble of blood was 
blown from its nostrils, and then the match burned 
his fingers. Fear come to him as he thought of the 
sinister beast lurking in the darkness, a beast whose 
ravening he had disturbed. A beast that would leap up 
at him, tearing as it had the ewe in whose throat the 
blood was sticky and frothed. The fear gave place to 
an alert calmness, and he struck another match, search¬ 
ing for slot or track of the raider. His hand bumped 
into something, and by the fitful gleam of one more 
match he saw that it was a miner’s flang, or pick. 
Blood and wool fouled one end. It might have been 
lying there when the raider bore its prey to the ground. 
William hurried to the hamlet, pausing many times to 
listen, an awful doubt in his mind. 

The conversation in the Nightcrow Inn was intense 
when he entered. A debate was evidently being held 
among half a dozen men near the door, since each man 
was talking at once in a loud voice, and ignoring what 
the others said. Brownie, wearing his special Satur¬ 
day night garb of a khaki tunic with a deciduous 
bowler, was regarding with dolour the quart pot before 
him, and smoking a short cutty. Under the lamp the 
card party was playing whist for quarts of beer. Old 
Muggy sat in his usual corner, smoking cigarettes in 
a long tube, and exclaiming after each lead, as he had 
for years: 

“What be that? A spade? I’ve got a spade. Gor- 
bruggee, trumped! Why didn’t I throw a spade away 
last round? What be that? A club? Zecond player 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


58 

play low. Jannie’s ace, and I ain’t got a club. Li’l 
trump. Hey, that be our trick!” as The Tiger en¬ 
deavoured to rake the grimy cards into his pile. 

William looked joyously round the company of men 
who wore their second-best clothes and hats, with clean 
shirt but no collar or tie, thinking that the faces of 
the landlord’s two daughters, leaning over the bar and 
joking with some youths drinking lemonade, were like 
flowers in the smoke. Everyone was happy, himself 
happiest of all. Landlord was smiling and asking him 
what he would have, no scowling faces anywhere: boots 
stamped on the stone floor, earthstained suits of cordu¬ 
roy, shapeless hats, ancient granfers sitting muffler- 
wrapped and silent in the corners, dogs and puppies 
playing and chasing one another and squirming under 
everybody’s legs, Brownie crying, “Willum Jan— 
Willum Jan—look ee at the dogs, fine li’l boys they be, 
Mis’r Meddlesome, midear! Zo ee went to Cryde 
Bay s’marnin and zeed li’l ruddle maid!” 

William sat beside him and shouted into his ear that 
he didn’t want everybody to know where he had been, 
and would Brownie keep the secret? Brownie replied, 
“That’s right, midear. It bant no one else’s bizniz! 
Don’t ee be afear’d, no one’ll knaw!” 

He suspected that everyone in Brakspears St. Flam- 
mea must know by now that he had been to Cryde 
Bay. He drank from Brownie’s pot, and Brownie 
drank from his. 

“Doan’t ee go yet, Mis’r Meddlesome, zur, doan’t 
ee go yet, midear. Zstop alongome and have a li’l 
confirmational conversation. Bide awhile, midear, wi’ 
old Broonie.” 

“No, I must go, Brownie. I’ve got to get my bread 


DEBATE AT THE NIGHTCROW 59 

and potatoes and other things. Drink up, and have 
another.” 

“Thank ee, Measter,” replied Brownie, draining his 
pot. “Willum Jan, Tattery, Yerwood, stoppit! Praper 
lil dogs they be, aiy aiy! Bread and tetties for dinner! 
Gorbrugge! Mis’r Meddlesome, will ee do me th’ 
honour of having a bite long o' me at dinner to¬ 
morrow?” 

“Thank you, I will,” he answered, flattered by the 
invitation. Brownie shouted at his acceptance. 

“Did you go zwimmun over to Cryde Bay to-day, 
zur?” asked the landlord, in a low confidential voice, 
as he took Brownie’s mug. 

“Yes, I strolled that way to-day,” Willum told him. 

“Aiy, I heard tell-on you were zeen over there,” vol¬ 
unteered the landlord, disappearing through the door¬ 
way to the barrel room. Coming back with the ale, 
William whispered for the loan of a razor. Secretly 
and with a smile he was given it; he went to the village 
shop for his bread and for half a pound of butter 
and a pot of jam, meaning to ask Eveline to tea. The 
grocer waved aside several children patiently holding 
enormous baskets, and money clasped tight in small 
fists, to attend to him. 

“That’s a lovely bit o’ butter, zur,” he said, “fresh 
from Varmer Jan Smith of Crowberry. Two shillun, 
zur: butter be tarrible scarce. Thay be charging six 
shillun a pound in Ilfracombe, too, and the same fur 
cream. ’Tis the drought, zur, and the war. Well, an 
what do you think of Cryde Bay, zur? Hot on the 
zands, weren’t it?” 

“Oh, were you there to-day?” enquired William. 


6o 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


! “No, zur. Too buzzy. Us poor men have to work 
all the day. Ony thing else, zur?” 

“No, thank you, Arty.” 

“Can’t I sell you a nice li’l pork chop, zur? Killed 
me pig only on Thursday.” 

“I shan’t want any meat this week end, thanks.” 

“No, zur,” sympathized the grocer, while the chil¬ 
dren watched him humbly. “I expect yule be dining 
over to Cryde Bay, zur, now you’ve got a bit of 
company? Mrs. Fairfax is a very nice lady, zur, if 
you will pardon me zaying so.” 

William bade him good-night and went out, sud¬ 
denly to return. 

“Oh, Arty, give the children some sweets, will you? 
A bob’s worth.” 

The children stared humbly as before, five of them, 
and did not make a sound. 

“What do ee zay, now?” reproved Arty; “th’ gen- 
nulmun has bought zome zweets for ee.” 

Four pairs of eyes stared at him (one child was 
blind) unblinking. 

“Say ‘Thank ee, Mis’r Maddizun,’ ” ordered Arty, 
sternly. 

“Mis’r Maa’sn,” 

“Mis’r Maa’sn,” 

“Mis’r Maa’sn,” 

“Mis’r Maa’sn,” 

“Mis’r Maa’sn,” 

they lisped in turn, never moving their eyes from 
his face. 

“They’m shy,” Arty made excuse. 

Yet their abashless gaze was upon him. So, sud¬ 
denly thought William, as he went down the valley 
path, was Mrs. Fairfax—a true and everlasting com- 


DEBATE AT THE NIGHTCROW 61 

radeship was to be between them, and her heart could 
no more help telling him by a hundred natural signs 
than the shy, dumb children could help showing, in 
their unwinking stare, the awe they felt in the majestic 
presence of a gennulmun. 

The rill rested in a little tarn just before losing 
itself in the shingle, and as he passed he heard a faint 
whistle. He turned towards it, calling tikkytikkytuck. 
There came to him a noise like the scrupeting of an 
ungreased axle, and the stars that shone in the black 
water quivered and went out. A splash, and Isaak 
greeted him with a low tickytuck. Hereward sniffed; 
the cub turned and went into the water, with its alarm 
cry—a mewing chatter. 

“Tikkytikkytuck,” crooned the master, and it re¬ 
appeared, and followed him swiftly into the cottage. 

He felt remorse at the frenzied greetings given him 
by his pets. The kittens mewed, the birds squawked, 
and Oswald hopped in and out of his feet, dragging 
its broken wing. Fortunately there was some stew 
remaining in the stockpot, and this they were given. 
He found the rabbit in the bush where he had hung it, 
skinned it and put it on to boil with some potatoes, 
carrots and barley. In the starlight Mrs. Large and 
Mrs. Larger were visited and milked; Isaak drew 
comfort from a bottle, the kittens and the puppies 
lapped from a dish. While the driftwood crackled and 
the flames flapped around the pot, he shaved his beard 
with many groans, and then sat and surveyed the 
hearth, thinking how he could pass the time to the 
morrow: he did not want to go to bed: he was not 
tired: nor could he read: the words meant nothing 
to him. As he stared unseeing it was borne upon him 
how lonely and purposeless was his life in the cottage: 


62 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


a mere existence. He shivered, and hugged his knees. 
What would happen in the future? His mind, busy 
with beauty, cast aside the speculation. The present 
only mattered. One might be dead on the morrow. 
That was the philosophy during the war, and it applied 
equally to life. 

He sat there, and heaved more wood on the fire 
when the flames lessened. Through the window a star 
burned in winking colours. The puppies slept on the 
old trousers, Becky was washing Pie upon the book¬ 
shelf. No sound came to the midnight dreamer save 
the wash of the sea, ceasing never, the dry whisper 
of the beetles exploring the floor for scraps of food, 
the hoot of an owl, or the squeak and scuffle of rats. 
He yawned many times, but his brain was never so 
active—how the star was like a dancing kingfisher! 
While others slept, he would cherish the wonder in his 
heart. With his long thin Arab-like foot (for he had 
removed his shoes) he stroked and smoothed the heads 
of Isaak and the pups. The sound of the waves as 
they rung a phantom carillon on the drowned shells 
died away in the night, the tide reached its lowest 
ebb, the last ember ceased to tinkle in the grate. 
Huddled in the ancient armchair, William drowsed, 
to awake with hope high in his heart, and to see Jack 
o’ Rags at the open door with a crab in his hand. The 
zany laid his offering on the doorstone, and slouched 
away without speaking. Immediately Isaak seized it 
and started to crack it up. 


CHAPTER VI 


FLAXEN THREADS 

They met on the Corpsnout the next morning, and 
went down to the deserted Vention sands on the north 
side of the headland. The sun shone brightly for them, 
and a white mist lay over an unmoving sea. William 
was so happy that he was not conscious of happiness. 
Time did not exist. The past was nothing; the future 
was nothing; the fair present was everything. Intro¬ 
spection was gone. Enough that she was Eveline, a 
wonderful companion with whom he talked as though 
he had known her all his life, as they ran and walked 
on the sands. They bathed, afterwards lying among 
the big blue and grey boulders at the edge of the land 
till the sun was high above them. Reluctantly they 
arose and scrambled up the little footpath through 
the thistles and brambles of the cliff. He went first, 
helping her over rough places. Once she nearly slipped 
or seemed to; he caught her round the waist, and 
exerted an unnecessary amount of strength in assuring 
himself that she would not fall. Reaching the top, 
they passed along the path through the withering 
barley. The girl led the way; occasionally she turned, 
and each time he dwelt on the glowing cheeks, the 
bright eyes, the ardent hair, the white neck. How 
proud was her bearing, and yet when he looked again 
it was that of an eager child. The spirit of the wild 
63 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


64 

was within her young body, the beauty of the sea 
within her eyes. 

“Why so silent, W-William?” 

He was but wool-gathering, he hastened to say. 

“Well, from the look in your eyes, I should say you 
were not wool-gathering.” She waited a moment for 
him to draw level with her, and linked her arm in his, 
looking into his face. 

“Share them with me, won't you?” 

They passed through the sickly corn, and came to 
a stile at the end of the path. On this they sat, while 
the heated air in the barley made a dry dissonance 
with the summer wavelets that on the white sands 
curled and crashed with distant murmur. Their shoul¬ 
ders touched; his left hand, pressed on to the spray- 
rutted wood, lay against her smaller one. 

He did not speak, and she linked her little finger 
with his. 

“Tell me what you are thinking of,” she begged. 

“Oh, but I cannot,” he exclaimed, looking on the 
ground. 

“Go on,” she whispered; “don't be shy with me, 
W-William.” 

A gorsebird made its incessant stoneclacking cry. 
After several hesitant beginnings he said: 

“I can’t tell you! ” 

“But do!” 

Nothing was said. He looked towards a dingle 
grooved between the hills, choked with thorn and 
holly. After awhile she murmured, “You haven’t 
told me.” 

Two black birds passed over from the mainland, 
croaking down the blue sky. They were ravens sailing 
to their nest on the Corpsnout. 


FLAXEN THREADS 65 

“I believe you want to humiliate me,” she com¬ 
plained. 

“No, Mrs. Fairfax,” he said gently. “I am almost 
afraid to tell you. I am afraid of life. Look across 
the sea, the summer sea that is blue and divine! We 
breathe the wind that flows from the immortal sky. 
We are living things in the midst of beauty! To me, 
that is a perpetual wonder! Look at those patches of 
trefoil on the terrace over there—gold sparks from 
the anvil of some heavenly farrier, shoeing the swift 
steeds of sunrise. Everywhere there is life, and my 
mind comprehends its beauty. Listen! that is a pippit 
fetching down song from the sky. Sometimes I feel 
that I can see the spirit beyond that song. I feel that 
the spirit has been unchanging since the first life 
stirred on the cooling crust of the great fireball of the 
earth. I seem to glimpse it as something too beautiful 
for words, and that the spirit of mankind is one with 
it—one in a luminous realm of beauty. And then I 
think that this is only an illusion, that it is a function 
of the mind that is self-induced. Terrible thought! 
That all is illusion! But I can see the mind of man¬ 
kind built up of impressions throughout the centuries, 
from the blue sea and the sun-sparkle on it, from the 
blown hair of the wind, from the odour of the flower. 
And from impressions also the bird has got its song, 
and the common dandelion has got its colour. Some¬ 
times at night I lie and watch the stars and then I feel 
how much greater I am than those suns hurtling and 
roaring through space—because they are but matter, 
and I am a mind! And then, suddenly, my ecstacy 
goes as I think of all the hunger and disease on this 
little cooling fireball which we call the world—there 
shoulcfbe no hunger, no slum-consumption, no wars! 


66 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


That is what I think about—wars and consumption, 
wasting disease, and strife! All caused by man’s desire 
of happiness—because he follows false ideals. I can 
sympathize with all men, for I’m a man who wants 
happiness, not riches, but just someone to live with 
me in my cottage, and love me, and believe the truth 
that I draw from the wells of my spirit—ah, what am 
I saying? What would I do with a beloved if she 
came? I have no money: only my dreams to give her. 
But how I would love her! You must be laughing at 
me! But I don’t care—I haven’t spoken—the real me 
hasn’t spoken—to anyone for years. I had one friend, 
once—he was a friend. . . 

His voice ended on a mutter. She gently covered 
his hand with her own, and said nothing. The summer 
stir of the sea was soothing like a whisper. She waited, 
her eyes gentle and sweet, and softly the wistful voice 
went on: 

“The day before I met you I sat here, and loved 
the sun, the sea, and the sky. Suddenly I was afraid: 
for I can love all these things, but one day I must leave 
them. I realized that I should grow old, that I should 
die, and still the wind would shake the poppy, the 
blue butterfly seek the harebell, and the trefoil be 
yellow on the hillside. I shall be gone—dead—and 
nothing I can do now can avert that. Nothing that 
we can do can stay death. And yet we hasten it— 
think of the war—the dead men at Suvla Bay, in the 
burning scrub—or drowned in Flanders mud. . . 

The voice broke in distress. She made no sign that 
she heard. Only the bleached barley went sish-sish, 
and the waves sighed on the strand below. Then he 
saw on the path before him the two wings of an admiral 


FLAXEN THREADS 67 

butterfly. Its body had gone—only the two wings 
were there. Perhaps a finch had caught it with a 
snap of its bill, and, pulling the wings off, had de¬ 
voured the body. How beautiful they looked, lying 
on the earth. Born, perhaps, a few hours before—a 
creature of sunlight, finding happiness in flickering 
along with colour-dusty sails, pausing to talk to a 
flower swaying on its stem, a flower as wonderful and 
fragile as itself. Perhaps with another admiral it had 
danced in the summery air, flaunting the gorgeous 
bars and spots of blue, black and scarlet. All that was 
over, now; the wings lay on the earth, useless things, 
meaningless things. The sun might shine, but the 
colours meant nothing; the wind might waft along 
other butterflies, to pause over the broken fans of 
glory. The same pitiless indifference was shown to all 
things upon the earth. The spirit of joy in the but¬ 
terfly had gone—but where? With the wind that bore 
it, into the blue sky that gave its royal assent to joy; 
its tiny spirit absorbed into that which gave all things 
life. 

These were his thoughts. They went on up the 
hill, a mournful fatigue making dull his mind. At the 
crest they rested, and she turned away from him. She 
lay beside a plum-thistle, touching its cardoon with 
a stem of grass. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, turning to her, 
for she had not spoken or looked at him for ten minutes. 

“Nothing,” she said humbly. She pulled the flower 
of the thistle, and with averted eyes she said, “You 
wakened things in me that I thought dead, that is all. 
You made me feel a mindless clod.” Impulsively she 
held his coat and leaned forward. “Lovely smell your 


68 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


coat has. Wood smoke and salt wind, and wild thyme. 
Poor, lonely, dreaming youth—I wish I could help 
you.” 

He did not move, but the wild pain in his heart 
seemed to be echoed by a curlew crying over the wasted 
uplands. 

Very quiet and subdued she seemed at the parting 
place. 

“Well, I shall see you to-morrow?” he asked, with a 
desire to hurt her, and flicking with his stick at the 
gorse. 

“Not this afternoon?” 

“I’ve got an engagement, with a friend of mine.” 

“I thought you hadn't got any friends?” 

“Oh yes, I have several. Shall I see you to-morrow?” 
She looked at him levelly. 

“You are just trying to annoy me, I believe. You 
say you want love, which I can't give you, but I can 
give you friendship and sympathy, but you just keep 
me at a distance.” 

He continued to swing aimlessly with his stick, and 
said nothing. He felt a sweet pang at her distress, 
and joyed in his obvious mastery. 

Her face was inscrutable, but the eyes were filled 
with hurt gentleness. He ceased the aimless swipes 
at the gorse and waited for her to speak, but she 
turned away and was gone. 

William watched her till she disappeared round the 
lane, and walked back to Brakspears St. Flammea, 
The street was filled with the smell of boiled cabbages. 
He passed along it towards Thistlecot. Halfway a 
tall figure detached itself from a crumbling cob wall 
and shuffled towards him. A grimy finger and thumb, 
both broken-nailed, went up to the bowler. 


FLAXEN THREADS 


69 


“Ullo, midear! You’m luking hottish!” 

“I am, Brownie. Sorry I’m late.” 

“Bin swummun, zur?” 

“Yes, Brownie.” 

“Aiy, aiy!” 

With this remark he followed his guest into the 
cottage, keeping on his head the bowler. His wife 
began to fuss round the deal table, whereon was a 
large and steaming pudding, and a huge jug of foam¬ 
ing ale, which Brownie eyed approvingly. The shining 
cheeks of Brownie’s Welsh wife glowed as he said: 

“What a lovely pudding, Mrs. Brown!” 

She touched the plates with a duster, gave a final 
proud glance at the young gennulmun, and then went 
out-doors to a shed at the bottom of the garden, where 
under pain of a girt beating her small children were 
herded together in silence, not listening to the eldest 
daughter Megan reading from the Bible. 

“Make no whisper,” she warned them; “the young 
gennulmun be dining with dad.” 

Inside, William and Brownie were eating with con¬ 
siderable noise, and soon the pudding had vanished 
and the foam on the brown ale had sunk lower in the 

jug. 

“They say romance is dead, Brownie.” 

“Be ee?” 

“You know what romance is, don’t you, Brownie?” 

“Surenuff I do.” 

“What is it, then?” 

Brownie winked solemnly his one eye, and opened 
his mouth. William watched a small spider spinning 
a web on his bowler, and murmured: 

“I wish she were not quite so beautiful. Gray eyes 
—the colour of genius.” 


70 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Aiy, her be a tidy maid, zur.” 

“Do you know what an ideal is, Brownie?” 

“Noomye, onless it be ruddle maid!” 

After which remark he chuckled to himself; it were 
worth repeating to the missis! Young gennulmun had 
a rare wit, but he, Ole Broonie, had quite as rare a 
wit, surenuff! 


CHAPTER VII 


THE SOLITARY POPPY 

He passed the afternoon playing with Brownie’s chil¬ 
dren, consenting to chase them and to be called, with 
shrill laughter, Old Granfer Dawbake, until Mrs. 
Brown reproved them for using such a scandalous word 
in the gennulmun’s presence. Then he talked with 
Megan, while she listened to every word, constantly 
telling the children to be quiet, then turning to listen 
to him. Soon he left and went down to Rats’ Castle 
and tried to read his favourite poets, but his mind 
would wander, so he put them back on the shelf, and 
went outside. The golden tranquility of the cove no 
longer sufficed him. Even the sight of the peregrine 
falcons sweeping at great speed from over the sea did 
not thrill him. He watched them until one dived, 
and the other swung still, a mere speck, above. The 
waiting bird fell, and William wondered as they dis¬ 
appeared behind the line of the hill what life had been 
shattered; then his thought returned to Mrs. Fairfax. 
He threw aimlessly a few pebbles into the water, and 
although the puppies waited bright-eyed for more, he 
disregarded them. He stared unseeing at the water, 
hesitated, then decided to go over to Cryde Bay. Up 
the hill path through the bracken he went, sometimes 
breaking into a run. He was impatient of his tardy 
progress, and longed for a horse to carry him at break- 
71 


72 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


neck speed across the headland. An hour shone away, 
and at last he was going down the pathway, through 
the lisping corn and so to the shore. At first he waited 
confidently for her to come to him, knowing that he 
was to be seen from her window in the cottage. In 
his mind he saw her peering eagerly between the white 
curtains, followed her as she rushed frantically to her 
bedroom, where she would tidy her hair, add an allur¬ 
ing and deliberate poppy-smear to her lips, and then 
stroll towards him, affecting surprise at the encounter. 

But the afternoon went on, and she did not come. 
He went down to the rocks to pass the time, medi¬ 
tated on the myriad life there—the shrimps and 
prawns, the crustaceans, anemones and seaplants. 
Idly he plucked horse-winkles and pitched them in a 
pool, continuing this until a sharp sting on his ankle 
made him aware of a sand-flea contentedly prospecting 
for blood. He killed it, and arose from the sharp pin¬ 
nacle of rock that was slowly numbing him. A scan¬ 
ning of the few beach idlers showed at once that she 
was not there. About a dozen people were lounging 
near, and dogs were barking for stones to be thrown 
into the surf. He tried to make his pups retrieve sticks, 
and while he was doing this he suddenly saw her quite 
near him, with a man, dressed in a dark blue flannel 
coat and white flannel trousers and brown buckskin 
shoes. The man sauntered along with his hands in 
his trouser pockets. Watching them, he felt a loneli¬ 
ness, and a return of sadness akin to that felt after the 
Armistice, when the spirit of comradeship was changed 
in the squadron mess; when friends, who had carelessly 
and happily been such, were demobilized, and there 
had been nothing to take their place. The happy 
circle round the stove in the ante-room after mess 


THE SOLITARY POPPY 


73 


dinner was broken up: nobody seemed to want to 
drink any longer hot whisky and water, with lemon 
in it: the wassailous spirit of comradeship had gone 
for ever. Himself had never been so lonely as when 
he left to be demobilized, and had gone home to his 
village to brood on the bitter changes that war had 
wrought; and in despair he had taken a train to the 
remote West Country, there to reject altogether the 
civilization that was worse than barbarism—since it 
chained a man to slavery in its factories and towns, and 
as compensation released him so that he might muti¬ 
late or be mutilated in order to save that civilization. 

Billjohn and Tatters, who had been chasing foot¬ 
prints round the rocks, rushed towards her: she was 
bending down to caress them: she was looking his way: 
she was waving her hand. William cleared his throat, 
and hitched up his shabby grey trousers. He felt 
bashful, and earnestly prayed he would not make a 
fool of himself. Eveline, he could imagine from her 
attitude, was swiftly telling her companion about him¬ 
self. Now he was near enough to see his face, he took 
an immediate dislike to him. When he looked at 
Eveline he felt as though something in his breast were 
fluttering to escape, becoming imprisoned in his throat. 

“Hullo, Bill! I thought it was you. Do you know 
Captain Collyer? Pat, this is Mr. Maddison.” 

They shook hands, and Captain Collyer said in a 
tired voice: “Hot, what?” 

“Very,” replied William. 

“Don't be formal, you two,” laughed Eveline. 

They both made a mirthless exclamation, and waited 
for her to speak. 

“Isn't it funny,” her gay voice said immediately, 
“that Pat and I should happen to meet .in this out- 


74 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


of-the-way spot? He motored here. Extraordinary 
how one runs across old friends, isn’t it? Indeed, he 
nearly ran me over in the other sense.” 

“I don’t think I’ve got any old friends,” mumbled 
William, immediately considering it an idiotic thing 
to say, and hating himself. 

His glance met hers—a sweet glance of sympathy. 
“Now, don’t become melancholy,” she whispered. 

Captain Patrick Collyer continued to say nothing, 
and to avoid looking at William. Easily he sauntered 
along, hatless, hands in trouser pockets. His forehead 
was exceedingly high, his head was big, he had the 
blue eyes of a girl, a feminine mouth, and a delicate 
complexion; he looked slightly sulky, as one always 
accustomed to attention and a little wearied by it. 
William imagined that he danced perfectly, that he 
drove his car at great speed and steered with one 
negligently gloved hand, and that under no circum¬ 
stances would he appear ill-at-ease. 

“Pat swam right through the Claw this morning, 
Bill. I told him he would be drowned. He came all 
the way from London, straight from a dance at the 
Ritz, leaving at dawn. He’s staying with friends at 
Ilfracombe.” 

“You must have travelled very fast,” said William. 

Captain Collyer continued to look on the sand. 
William envied his air of nonchalance as he drawled, 

“I’ve got a rather fast bus.” 

“What is it?” 

“What make, you mean? Oh, my own design.” 

“Has it a powerful engine?” William suggested. 

“Useful. Eight cylinder. Two hundred b.h.p. She’d 
lap at about a hundred and twenty on Brooklands, 

I expect.” 


THE SOLITARY POPPY 75 

“You’ll come and have tea with me?” asked Eveline. 

“I must get back, thank you,” William replied. 

“Oh, n-no. Please, you’ll have tea with me?” 

“Yes, I would 1-like to,” he stammered, and she 
laughed delightedly, thinking that he was mocking her. 

Captain Collyer strolled on in front. His face 
showed a languid indifference. At the door of the 
house he waited for them. She led them into the cot¬ 
tage where she was staying, a whitewashed building 
called Stalewell House. The three puppies wandered 
round the floor, sniffing the wainscotting for mice. 

“Bill lives all alone in a cottage over the hills,” she 
said to Captain Collyer; “that would hardly suit you, 
would it? You’d feel lost without Shiggles to shave 
you, wouldn’t you? I suppose you’ve still got the 
old fellow?” « 

Captain Collyer raised his eyebrows and nodded 
slowly. 

“Shiggles is the most curious servant in the world, 
Bill. He is over seventy, and just like a bull moose. 
Pat saved him from a bear in Canada, and ever since 
Shiggles has devoted his life to him. When Pat was 
shot down over his own ’drome Shiggles wanted to go 
up and meet the Hun himself. Tell him about it, 
Pat.” 

“My dear lady, why bore him?” 

“Well, if you won’t tell him, I will. Pat, I may 
tell you, Billy, has brought down forty-seven Huns. 
He got the second bar to his D.S.O. for-” 

“Really, Lina, it’s hard on a fellow to have his past 
raked up.” 

“I shall say what I like about you. Oh, all right, 
if you would rather I didn’t. I’m glad someone is 


76 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

sociable. Well, Billy—oh, here’s Mrs. Shrake with 
tea.” 

“Have you heard from Lionel lately?” he heard 
Captain Collyer drawling, and immediately speculated 
upon the identity of Lionel. 

“Not lately,” she answered immediately: “the mail 
is not due till next Wednesday, and I rather expect 
to hear about his leave. He is expecting it, I know. 
Lionel is my husband,” she said to William. “I didn’t 
tell you I was married, did I?” 

“I think you did, Lina?” he queried flippantly. 

“Oh, did I? Sometimes I forget that I’ve got a 
husband. I don’t wear a ring, you see. It is the nature 
of seawater, you know, to make the fingers shrink.” 

“Yes, blame the nature of seawater,” drawled Cap¬ 
tain Collyer. 

“You satirical beast!” 

“Ambiguity, not satire, Lina. My wit, like your 
temperament, is essentially adaptable.” 

“Subtle man! But are you shocked at me for not 
displaying my badge of conjugality, William?” 

“Why should anyone be shocked in an age when we 
all please ourselves?” 

“Oh, do we? You seem to be worldly wise all of a 
sudden, William. But you mustn’t put ideas in my 
head.” 

He assumed what he hoped was a flippant air in 
order to hide the depression that he felt within him. 
The girl whom only that morning he had distressed by 
his sadness, pained by his indifference, made miser¬ 
able by his cruelty, now was quite changed. He felt 
that she was a stranger to him. He tried to conceal 
his thoughts by an affectation of amusement, but it 
was a weak effort. Glancing at her, he saw that she 


THE SOLITARY POPPY 


77 


was contemplating him with a frank wistfulness: she 
half closed her eyes, tilted her head slightly and gave 
him a deliberately tender glance. The depression be¬ 
came heavier, and he tried to show in his eyes how 
hurt and puzzled he was by the presence of Captain 
Collyer. 

“Let’s have a bathe,” she suggested, after tea; “only, 
Pat, you mustn’t be reckless.” 

“I am never reckless,” Captain Collyer protested as 
they went out. He returned to his car, standing in the 
lane, to get a bathing dress, and as soon as he was 
gone Evelme said tensely: 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Nothing is the matter, Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“Why are you so strange? You bewilder me. One 
moment you are gentle and like a sweet child, and 
then you become cold and distant. Why is it? What 
have I done?” 

“You have done nothing.” 

“Is it because Pat is here?” 

He did not answer, but turned away his head. 

“I thought so! Oh, you child, do you know what 
that implies? Listen. There is no time now to tell 
you the whole circumstances, but Pat is one of the 
nicest boys in the world. Poor fellow, he was expelled 
from Eton, and had to go to Canada, just before the 
war. That manner of his is just a mask to the world. 
You would think to look at him that he was effeminate 
and a useless creature, wouldn’t you? Yet he is one 
of the bravest of men, one who has had to restrain 
all his feelings, otherwise he never would have come 
through the war alive. That’s why he appears with¬ 
out emotion.” 

He nodded sympathetically. 


78 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“And, Billy, why did you behave so to me this 
morning? It wasn’t good form, was it, my dear? You 
made me miserable.” 

“I’m sorry, but I was hurt because-” 

“What?” 

“Oh, because you are Mrs. Fairfax,” he exclaimed, 
red in the face. 

She kicked a piece of wood softly. She seemed to 
be remembering something far away. And, looking 
suddenly at him, she observed in a voice of reflective 
resignation, “I was married when I was sixteen, Billy.” 

“And are you unhappy?” he asked earnestly, grasp¬ 
ing her arm. 

“I am not very happy,” she said, her eyes on the 
ground. 

“I am sorry I was beastly to you, Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“Dear boy, I understand. Pat will go back shortly, 
I expect, and then you must take me to your cottage, 
and we will have some lovely long talks. And you shall 
read Shelley to me!” 

“Will you really come?” he asked eagerly. 

“My dear, I am so looking forward to it. You must 
show me those peregrine falcons of yours, and the seal, 
and Isaak the otter, and Jerry, and poor old Grannie!” 

“You haven’t forgotten their names?” 

“Why, no! I’ve been thinking of you every minute 
since we met, thinking of you alone with your old 
birds! I wrote a long letter, too. . . 

“I say, give it to me.” 

“No, it is such a foolish letter. I wrote it because 
I could not sleep. Oh, when you spoke at the stile 
about the beauty in life, and told me your thoughts, 
my heart was weeping, weeping for your spiritual 
distress. I could understand so well how the war hurt 



THE SOLITARY POPPY 


79 


you, the mental suffering, I mean, and the needlessness 
of it all, and how you were struggling to reconcile your 
vision with reality. That is why I left you: you made 
me feel so petty and useless, and though I wanted to 
help you, I could see no way. Don’t worry, my dear 
. . . things will come all right in time. . . . Here’s 
Pat coming back. Hush, do not talk about these things 
with him: he would not understand. We can talk 
when he goes. Now be a good boy and make friends. 
Hullo, Pat! What a time you’ve been! Billy and I 
have been talking about the war—at least, I was 
talking! ” 

“What, again! My dear Mrs. Fairfax!” 

“Yes, again! My dear Captain Born Tired!” 

She squeezed his arm, laughing into his face. Will¬ 
iam, making an excuse to find his dogs, went away 
and kept away. Eveline did not appear to care whether 
he returned, so he climbed a sandhill, and moodily 
watched them bathing. 

At last, when they were dressed, he rose and strolled 
down to them. Eveline came forward, and whispered, 

“Jealous child!” 

“I’m not,” he said. 

“Yes, you are. Come and be sociable.” 

“I think I will go back to the cottage.” 

“Why?” 

“I want to feed my friends.” 

“Very well.” 

“I think I’ll go.” 

“Very well.” 

“Captain Collyer and you really do not want me. 
You and he are old friends—I am a stranger—I’ll go. 
Thank you very much for the tea.” 

Saying good-bye, he walked away, feeling a burn in 


8o 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


his throat. Fie did not pause till he reached the Corp- 
snout, and then he sat on the shrivelled pasturage of 
the hillcrest. By his side a poppy droiled in the sun, 
a burst of scarlet from the dried earth. It was the 
only wildflower that he could see, and, while other 
plants were withered, it seemed to find nurture for 
its untamed bloom. He snapped the flower from the 
stalk, and crushed the petals in his fingers; and then 
stared at it, wondering why he had broken the blossom 
that had been all-in-all for its seeds. 

The moon that had been like the gold bill of a 
curlew grew fuller, and every evening he watched 
it rising. It was quiet above the valley as the roister¬ 
ing sun went home, and wearily the earth put up its 
shutters. No one came near William as in the bracken 
he sat, trying to find happiness in the song of eve jars, 
the far high scream of racing swifts, and the antics 
of his pups. Soon the moon was for him a gold hulk 
adrift in the reefless night sky, dismasted and rudder¬ 
less, yet its ghostly crew forever netting the stars. 
By the thorns and the stunted holly bushes a swarm 
of chafers boomed and flipped, and moths whirred in 
the brake ferns. “You’m luking woebegone, midear,” 
said Brownie when one night, unable to contain his 
melancholy, he went to the Nightcrow Inn. 

“ Tis the hottish weather, zur. It be tarrible for 
all things. They do tell of going wi’ guns to shoot the 
worriting shaepdog. It bant no dog; reckons it be a 
Doone ghostie. Now, I do wish I’d Wilburn Jan wi’ 
me justanow. I zeed a bootiful rabbut. If I’d a dog 
I’d have shot un quick! What, be homewards a-ready 
to Rats’ Castle, midear? Surenuff?” and the one eye 
regarded him tenderly. "My boys do talk bout ee 
all day, now. Gude-night, zur, gude-night!” 


THE SOLITARY POPPY 


81 


Children ceased their clamouring play of hide-and- 
seek in the drangs and gardens as he passed, murmur¬ 
ing tinily, “Mis’r Ma’sson,” cottage wives smiled and 
said, “You’m a praper zstranger,” and there was a 
silence after he passed. He felt himself to be a stran¬ 
ger, an outcast, his heart to be derelict like the gold 
hulk skylogged in the Exmoor vapours. A bottle-green 
dusk brimmed the valley. The wavelets of the cove 
no longer pealed the elfin bells: there was only the 
dirge of the sea. That evening he read Bevis while it 
seemed that his spirit was trying to tear itself from 
his body to join that of Jefferies which had wandered 
round the shores of the New Sea, which had fished 
near the island Serendib, which had sailed the blue 
boat Pinta, and tacked into the wind while the ripples 
went sock, sock against its bows. 

How Jack and I used to pore over this book, he 
thought. We, too, made a hut on Heron’s Plume 
Island, we, too, had a battle. Never again can that 
happen. Jack, Jack, if you were only with me! 

The printed page became blurred, and the book 
slid to the floor. Billjohn whined at his knees. Tat¬ 
ters and Hereward were out hunting milkydashels, 
but, hearing their mate’s whine, back they came, 
tumbling through the circular hole at the bottom of 
the door. Around the god they leapt, rolling with 
him on the floor, whining and gurgling, licking his 
face, his bare ankles, his hands—telling him that they 
loved him, and would serve him always, whether he 
starved them, beat them, or cast them away. 


CHAPTER VIII 


SPELL BY THE WATER 

But when the morning came they were around his 
pillow, snoring, on their backs with legs askew, but 
very warm and comforting. He threw off the blanket, 
and with it Becky and Pie, two cockroaches and a 
spider. He jumped down the stairs, and at the open 
door drank the cold sweet air of morning. A crab- 
green wave curled and crashed on the shingle: the 
sound awoke in him an ecstacy of living. Into the 
foamy water he plunged, and swam to a gray rock at 
the mouth of the cove, clambering to a natural seat. 
When the sun first filled the valley with light he swam 
in, and gave the animals their meal. They snarled and 
chattered, and stole food from one another’s mouths. 
When all was finished, the puppies returned to the 
trousers and slept, Becky washed Pie, Isaak went off 
on a secret business, and Grannie Gordangle caught 
flies at the window. He smoked on the beach, and 
read aloud how a dying man had remembered the 
summers of his youth when he had been in love. 

A sweet breath on the air, a soft warm hand in 
the touch of the sunshine, a glance in the gleam of 
the rippled waters, a whisper in the dance of the 
shadows. 


82 


SPELL BY THE WATER 


83 

There can never be summers again like those at 
home, when Big WilTum and Jim Holloman were in 
the mowing meadows, he thought. 

The ethereal haze lifted the heavy oaks and they 
were buoyant on the mead, the rugged bark was 
chastened and no longer rough, each slender flower 
beneath them again refined. There was a presence 
everywhere, though unseen: on the open hills, and 
not shut out under the dark pines. 

And there was Dolly, turning the swathes with the 
other girls, who went to the Witch pool at evening to 
dip, he sighed. 

Let not the eyes grow dim, look not back but 
forward: the soul must uphold itself like the sun. 

I wonder where Bill Nye is, and what he is doing. 
Granmer Nye must be dead, and old Bob Lewis, too. 
Change everywhere, bitter change. 

In the blackbird's melody one note is mine: in 
the dance of the leaf shadows the formed maze is 
for me, though the motion is theirs: the flowers 
with a thousand faces have collected the kisses of 
the morning. 

“I suppose Eveline has forgotten me,” he said aloud 
to Grannie Gordangle: “I cannot read, I cannot think, 
I only want to be with her. She was so sweet to me, 
and she understands. Captain Collyer must be much 
more companionable than myself. I have known her 


84 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

but a week, and yet everything is changed. I wish 
Jack o’ Rags could speak, so that I could tell him 
about it.” 

The zany was emerging from his underground home 
in the hillside opposite the cottage, yawning and 
stretching his arms. William walked over to him, 
calling out a greeting. He did not answer, but stared 
at him dazedly. Bits of his brackeny bed were in his 
hair and beard, and the mouldy coat he wore was 
fastened by thorns; the hair on his face and chest was 
tumbled and black as a shot crow’s wing. 

“Have you been sleeping?” asked William in a 
loud voice. Jack o’ Rags said “Look,” lifted up his 
right leg and showed him a wound just above thq 
boot. 

“Take oh your boot,” he ordered. “Boot—boot,” 
tapping it with his stick and pretending to remove his 
own. Jack o’ Rags sat down and wrenched it off. His 
foot was brown with dried blood. He examined the 
lacerations on the leg and wondered what could have 
caused them. It was as though a fierce animal had 
bitten the limb. On each side of the bone were three 
suppurating patches. The top of the boot was gashed. 

He had been bitten by the sheep-worrying dog, 
mused William as he peered at it, and yet these marks 
are too big for a dog’s teeth. I wonder if there is some 
wild beast escaped from a show somewhere—a jaguar, 
or perhaps a leopard. By jove, this is exciting. 

“Who did it?” He knew as he spoke that the ques¬ 
tion was unavailing; Jack o’ Rags replied with his 
single word. 

“Look,” said he, pointing to his leg, and, like a 
child who has pronounced a new word, he repeated, 
“Look—look—look.” 


SPELL BY THE WATER 


8* 

“Dog bite your leg?” 

“Look—look.” 

He made the noise of big dogs baying Wough-wough . 
The zany sprang up and glared about him. The pup¬ 
pies disturbed by the noise started to yapp, and with 
a leaping movement Jack o' Rags disappeared into the 
dark red tunnel. 

“Lie down,” William ordered the puppies; “don't 
make that stupid row for nothing. OUTSIDE!” 

They rushed away and played on the shingle. There 
was a harsh scream, and Jerry the jay flew to his 
shoulder. Thinking that it meant more food, Diogenes 
came down the goyal, and Grannie Gordangle with 
him. The seagull gabbled in the doorway of Rats' 
Castle demanding that he should have his share. They 
went away on realizing that he had nothing for them. 

He stood at the cave hole and called “Look” several 
times. A bright lizard-green moss grew on the stones, 
and a cow's skull lay at his feet. 

“Look!” he called. 

A shuffling came from the cold gloom, and Jack o’ 
Rags appeared. He spoke to him and led him by the 
arm into the light. They continued the conversation 
with the single word. When they came to Rats' Castle, 
William pushed him gently so that he sat down on 
the threshold. 

He boiled a kettle, and was tearing some linen into 
strips when Jack o' Rags growled in a deep voice, 

“Look—look—look.” 

William went to him, wondering what new discovery 
the zany had made, since his altered voice presaged 
the unusual. 

“Look,” he said again, and William looked. 

At the same time Eveline from the hillpath waved 


86 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


both her arms, and a musical cry like that of a Tyrolese 
goatherd echoed in the valley. 

“Look,” said Jack o’ Rags. 

William breathed deeply, and his heart beat 
violently. 

“Hullo,” was all he said when she was near. 

“Hullo, Lord Tornsox,” she called as she crossed 
the shell beach. “Why haven’t you been over?” 

“Oh, I’ve been mucking about here.” 

“I’ve been alone an awful lot, and have been fishing 
most days with old Muggy—lobsters and crabs. He is 
a dear old chap. Such sport. And I’ve been so wor¬ 
ried. My poor little Jonquil has had influenza. I 
nearly went off to Findlestone to see her, but it wasn’t 
serious.” 

“Who’s Jonquil? It’s a lovely name.” 

“I am so glad you like it. Jonquil is my little 
daughter!” 

“Your daughter?” 

“Yes, my daughter! Don’t look so startled! Didn’t 
you think I was old enough? And how are you?” turn¬ 
ing to Jack o’ Rags, and smiling. 

“He can’t speak. I’m just going to do his foot.” 

“The poor dear: his foot looks bad. Who is he? 
Can he understand what one is saying? 

“No.” 

“W-William, you amaze me more every minute. 
What an extraordinary thing you are. You never 
mentioned that you had a lodger.” 

“I haven’t. Jack o’ Rags lives in the mine over 
there.” 

“Good heavings. What a weird crowd you are!” 

“He’s been bitten by something, I think.” 

“I should think he has! Let me dress his leg for 


SPELL BY THE WATER 87 

him. I know all about nursing. You can’t use that 
rag—it would give him blood poisoning. Have you 
any iodine?” 

“No, but I’ve got some boric powder.” 

“That’s better than nothing. I’ll wash it for him, 
if he won’t object. Doesn’t he stare at me? Poor old 
fellow, he ought to be in a hospital. How does he 
live?” 

“On berries and rabbits.” 

“Robinson Crusoe and his man Friday! Hullo, is 
that Isaak? He doesn’t like me—hark at that snarl¬ 
ing chatter. What a lovely creature—look at his brown 
rudder! Oh, the darling’s only got three pads. How 
sweet of you to nurse these poor broken things. And 
no one nurses you, who n-need tenderness so much.” 
Her lip trembled, and she turned her head. “May I 
go inside and see your cottage, please?” 

“Do, please.” 

“Oh, what a mess everything is in! You poor thing.” 

She spoke as though the sight of disarrangement 
within was hurtful to her. He felt that her compassion 
was for himself, as she moved quickly round the room, 
gazing at his books, reading the titles aloud, touching 
them, putting them in order. 

“My dear, how damp they are. Look at the mildew.” 

“I know, Lina.” 

“How did you know I am called Lina?” 

“Collyer called you Lina, so I thought I would.” 

“Of course.” 

“May I call you that, please?” 

“Why, certainly. And yet—I like your grave pro¬ 
nunciation of my name. No, you must not call me 
Lina—everyone calls me that. Call me Eve.” 


88 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Thank you. Eve, I am so glad you have come to 
see my cottage.” 

“Are you, really?’’ she asked, with relief. 

“I cannot tell you how glad. I have missed you— 
but I should not say that. But, you know, it is a poor* 
place to invite anyone to.” 

“It isn’t—it’s- Your socks, my dear: they are 

not mended. Don’t you get blisters?” She looked into 
his face. “But, first, we must attend to Man Friday. 
See how he stares at me.” 

He was sent upstairs for the boric powder, while 
with sleeves rolled up she scoured the basin with sand, 
and washed the linen. All the while she spoke to him, 
her lips dewy with smile, her glance always tender. 
She knelt before Jack o’ Rags, and with firm hands 
bathed the wounds, then frowningly inspected them, 
after which she asked for a knife. At her bidding he 
purified the blade in the ember-flames of the wood fire, 
and when it was cooled she with swift gentleness 
cleansed the hurt. The water became stained, and 
he shuddered, but Jack o’ Rags did not wince. Now 
she was laving the bony leg, and the zany was touching 
her auburn hair in wonderment and gratitude. 

“Look—look,” he said, smoothing it. 

She smiled as though she was pleased, and he realized 
with pain that all men must surely be drawn to her, 
because she was gracious to even the least among them. 

When his leg was bandaged Jack o’ Rags stood on 
the threshold. 

“And now I must attend to you,” she told him. 
“You must work under my command. And before I 
can issue orders I must inspect the entire place. Lead 
on, 0 minister to the sick.” 



SPELL BY THE WATER 


89 


“Upstairs?” 

“Yes.” 

“But it is so untidy.” 

“I am prepared for disorder.” 

“You will get a shock.” 

“That will be stimulating. Lead on, W-Will’um the 
Birdboy.” 

He lifted the latch and she passed up the stairs. The 
first room was small, and contained a table and chair. 
A pen and ink and papers were scattered on the table. 
A tiny window permitted light to enter and show the 
desolation of the place. One corner of the ceiling had 
fallen in, or rather on a previous occasion William, 
crawling over the laths in order to find swifts’ nests, 
had suddenly gone through the plaster, to the surprise 
of himself and two rats who had been exploring his 
kit during his absence. Spiders’ webs were spun in 
the corners and ruined with wood-dust which trickled 
from the holes at every mousepeep. Eveline made 
many exclamations when she saw the state of his bed¬ 
room, and immediately ordered the blankets and mat¬ 
tress of his bed to be thrown outside in the sun. She 
said that his coats hanging upon nails around the 
walls were damp and the delight of moths. She ex¬ 
claimed at the swallows’ nest upon the beam, and 
took the broom pretending to knock it down, but with 
an anguished cry he restrained her, explaining after¬ 
wards he was, of course, foolish, but that he loved the 
swallows. Looking merrily at him, she said that it 
was unhealthy to have animals and birds sleeping in 
the same room, although in other and less intimate 
ways they might compensate for lack of human friends. 
He flung the coats through the window with such force 


90 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


that she stopped sweeping and laughed at him. He 
pretended to be hurt by her merriment, and was dis¬ 
appointed when she appeared to disregard it. 

She worked very hard, scrubbing the floor when it 
had been swept. “You must strip off all those news¬ 
papers, and get some limewash,” she suggested, paus¬ 
ing to read the date of a sheet that was stuck over a 
crack. “The North Devon Herald, 17 December, 1899 
—they talk about the War. That must be the Boer 
War. It has been stuck there a long time. Vile print. 
You must tear all this down.” He protested that he 
liked it there, as it belonged to a past age and gave 
him a feeling of awe whenever he glanced at it. She 
laughed again, and said he was a proper old granfer, 
but said it so softly that it made him happy. 

“At any rate I am some good,” she reflected, when 
by her energy the bedroom was clean and orderly. 

“What do you think of me as a skivvy, my lord 
Tornsox? Not very much. Well, I used to be one in 
a Castle, once! Now, if you give me your socks I will 
go downstairs and darn them. Come on, take 'em off. 
Well, what does that matter? While I am darning 
you can change your trousers and I will patch that 
little rent in them. How surprised you look! Didn’t 
you know that they were torn in two places? Now 
I’ve made the sensitive child go quite red in the face. 
And that reminds me, I saw a rare flower this morning 
that will interest you, the Scarlet Cranesbill. It was 
growing by a stone heap near Cryde Bay. And I 
remembered it from an illustration in a little book I 
used to love when I was a child: a sort of wild gera¬ 
nium. I thought that you would like to hear of it. 
Such a sweet flower. I picked it, but it fell out of my 
pocket as I was crossing the Corpsnout. You don’t 


SPELL BY THE WATER 


9i 


think it improper of me to sit on the bedstead of a 
young bachelor’s establishment? At least I suppose 
it was once a bedstead, although now it looks more like 
an ancient harp stolen off an old-iron heap than a bed. 
It’s quite rusted through, W-William! Oh, I’m so 
happy, happy. Excuse this tomfoolery, but I feel that 
I must bubble on in my nonsense or go mad. I want 
to laugh and dance, and sing and shout! W-William, 
if you look so solemn I shall knock your eye out! Your 
shirt is undone. Come here, and I’ll sew a button on 
for you.” 

He shifted on the framework. 

“Come on!” 

As he did not answer, she asked him if he felt shy. 

“Oh, no.” 

“Yes, you are!” 

He did not say again that it was not shyness. On 
the ceiling of that small room were gliding the yellow 
ripples thrown up from the sea. He had a feeling of 
delightful fear, because her voice was altered, and she 
was looking at his eyes, and he did not turn to her 
gaze. He liked to see her disturbed by his simulated 
indifference. A leisured song of blackbird came down 
the valley, and the summer wavelets shook the shells 
of the cove. 

“Why do you mock me?” she breathed. 

He looked on the floor and tried to think of an 
answer. 

“I don’t, really, Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“You do. Often there is fear in your eyes. Be¬ 
cause I’m married, I suppose?” 

“Yes, your glittering ring makes my eyes ache!” 

“You avoid any direct statement by your crude 
jokes!” 


92 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“But, honestly, I like you,” he said. 

“Oh, you like me, do you? All-men-are-brothers- 
sort-of-idea, I suppose? I believe you care more for a 
swallow than for a human being.” 

“No, it is more than that,” he replied, his voice 
suddenly flat. 

“I don’t understand.” 

He sighed: thus was his dream esteemed and its 
worth dismissed. 

“You are polite certainly; I wish you were not. I 
believe in your heart you despise me for coming over. 
Since you left on Sunday I have been made miserable 
by you, you who care not if you never see me again.” 
She seized his left hand, and said that she wanted to 
hurt him, to be cruel to him, to make him suffer, be¬ 
cause he scorned her for trying to help him. His thumb 
was bent back, and although the pain was sharp he 
did not move, but said, 

“Break my thumb if you want to, Mrs. Fair¬ 
fax.” 

She flung away his hand and told him to leave her, 
that she despised and hated him. He got up and went 
to the stairs, but she called his name, and he turned 
and saw tears on her lashes. 

“Oh, I am sorry; truly I am. I am half wanton 
still, you see, and I was really trying to be decent. 
But your indifference is a w-wound to me!” 

At this confession he remained silent, waiting with 
a feeling of fascination to hear what she would sav 
next. 

When after awhile she said nothing he returned 
slowly to her side and touched her hair. She looked 
up at him, and he saw that her eyes were wet. With 
a feeling of shame he realized that she was being abso- 


SPELL BY THE WATER 93 

lutely natural. He wanted to comfort her, but he 
dared not. 

“I am going to cook your lunch for you,” she said. 

Afterwards they collected the coats and blankets. 
It was necessary first to shake off Billjohn, Here ward, 
Tatters, Becky, Pie and any of their straying depen¬ 
dents. He suggested a walk to the pine woods beyond 
the hamlet. In a dream of soft valley sunshine he 
walked with her, while magpies scolded their approach 
from afar, and the voice of a turtle dove throbbed with 
love in the thorn brakes. She was like a child ecstatic 
with wonderment as he told her the names of wild 
birds that sprang up from bracken and tussock at their 
passing, clapping her hands with delight and her eyes 
shining joyously. But a moment seemed the walk up 
the path, and then they were in the thatched and lime- 
washed hamlet, stroking every grimalkin on garden 
wall, and speaking to housewives who craned round 
doorways and greeted them while covertly wiping 
hands on aprons. Proudly he walked by her side 
through Brakspears St. Flammea, until they came to 
fields red with poppies asway in the windy com, where 
they rested and talked intimately of things light as 
the wings of honey-flies darting about the taller flowers 
of scabious. 

They wandered over parched fields to a quiet valley 
of sapling oak and cone-bearing trees, over which in 
sunny wind three buzzards were soaring. Pigeons 
clattered away through dense large twigs as they 
went beside a stream, the sunlight making white the 
marks on their blue necks. A herd of wild red deer 
trotted up the steep hill as soon as the wind brought 
human scent to their nostrils; there was a stag with 
growing antlers, and three hinds, each with a tiny calf 


94 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

and a pricket. Hand in hand they watched them 
bounding among the trees, and then went on till they 
came to cool beech trees where in dancing light and 
shade they rested beside a well fringed with water- 
hemlock and brooklime. Coloured chips of stones were 
clear in the light-laden water. 

“This is the well of St. Flammea,” he told her, “and 
it is legend that a knight crept here when wounded 
and his blood dripped into the pool. His lady found 
him as he was dying, and he told her that his spirit 
would go into the ground and rise with the spring. 
He was a bard, and her brother had waylaid him in 
the wood and had him stabbed by assassins. So this 
water never ceases to flow, like the poetry of the earth.” 

“And what did his lady do?” 

“When he died she held her face under the water 
and was found drowned with him. That is the story 
of St. Flammea, as afterwards the knight was called.” 

“I wonder if it is true?” 

“I think so. That is how the village got its name. 
Sir Flammea was probably a great man at the jousts, 
and became famous as a lance-breaker. That might 
in time become Brakspear, and as his spirit is in the 
water he became a saint.” 

“Do you think that anyone’s spirit could be in 
water?” 

“Who knows? Why shouldn’t it be?” 

“But you assume that there is a spirit? A friend of 
mine, Lord Spreycombe, once told me that religion 
was based upon fable. How do you know you have 
a soul?” 

“It is your spirit that shines in you now. I cannot 
see it. But because I cannot see it is no proof that 
it isn’t there. Reason tells me I am a spirit, just as 


SPELL BY THE WATER 


95 

reason tells me that one of those little coloured stones 
on the bed of the well is matter. The two are utterly 
apart. My body is matter. My body and my spirit 
are different things, blended temporarily.” 

“I wonder if this water would ever cease to well,” 
murmured Eveline, regarding her own image in the 
water. 

“Not even in the longest drought. It flows for 
ever, coming from the purity of the earth. As this 
water, the life-giving water, wells up, so does the 
goodness, or the poetry, or the desire to be beautiful 
and to be calm—whichever term you prefer—rise in 
man’s soul. If this well be choked, the water will rise 
elsewhere. Keats knew that when he said that The 
poetry of the earth is ceasing never.’ ” 

She sniffed, and turned away. 

“What’s the matter, Eve?” 

She said with flippant tenderness, in order not to 
hurt him, “I don’t want you to talk about Keats. I 
want you to talk about us. I can see your eyes in the 
water, so big and solemn, W-will-yum!” 

“And I can see yours.” 

“What are those sweet blue flowers?” 

“Brooklime.” 

“They are like the wondering eyes of a child. My 
Jonquil has eyes like that.” 

“And Jonquil’s mother has eyes that are the colour 
of the little wild gray wood dove.” 

A willow wren sang of summer among the cones, 
and afar, but distinctly heard, a pheasant was disturb¬ 
ing the afternoon calm with his hoarse crowing. The 
hum of insects formed a slumbrous undertone in the 
tranquil larch forest, while goldcrests flitted along their 
verdant roadways above. 


96 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

A spider threw an airy line, which touched his face. 
A slight contact; she brushed it away. Another gleam¬ 
ing thread floated by. 

“Did you feel it?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“I feel that I am being bound by a million such 
threads. The glance of an eye, a shy smile, a thought 
of beauty that echoes in my heart, a kindness done 
to me.” 

He did not know what he should reply. 

She said no more, but her hand sought his, and 
clasped it. The willow wren still piped away golden 
minutes. He felt her hair against his cheek, and 
wanted to put his lips to it. He was going to speak, 
when Eveline said: 

“I have a confession to make. You will loathe me, 
but I cannot go on any more unless I tell you.” 

He felt a sick fear within him. 

“What is it?” 

“Do you remember when I first met you?” 

“Yes.” 

“We talked about poetry.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I told a lie. I said that I had read some poet 
or other. It was a lie. I feel so mean.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I was a hypocrite. And you are so sin¬ 
cere! I never saw anything in poetry until I met you. 
That is the truth. Do you hate me?” 

“How could I do that?” he said, looking into her 
eyes. 

“You are sweet to me,” she whispered, pressing his 
fingers. 


SPELL BY THE WATER 97 

"It is of no importance,” he said. "I think you live 
poetry, while I—I just dream.” 

"But I am bad.” 

"Silly!” 

"But I am. Perhaps I learned too quickly and 
falsely in the war, like many another. And fancy, at 
twenty-three I’ve got a child who is five years of age. 
She’s got a rotter for a mother.” 

A tear trilled down her cheek, and it fell into the 
water and was lost, but tiny ripples spread across to 
the petals of the brooklime. 

"Don’t cry, Mrs. Fairfax,” whispered William, "don’t 
cry any more. Of course, I understand you. Don’t 
cry, Eveline.” 

He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her 
timidly, whispering that she was good, and laying his 
own hot cheek against the cold tears. Soon she was 
smiling at him with misted eyes, and confessing that 
she was an idiotic person to weep, because it made 
her eyes red. 


CHAPTER IX 


DOG DAYS 

Since swallow-time of that year the fierce sunlight 
had pressed upon the land, drying up the dewponds and 
the hill springs. As the drought increased so was more 
misery made for the sheep. Old Voley the shepherd 
began to look haggard; not only was the loss to his 
master heavy, but he had a love for the animals at 
whose birth he had watched. All day long their pitiful 
cries quavered into the heated air. Whenever he ap¬ 
peared on the down, a gaunt greybeard riding bareback 
and bridleless his tamed Exmoor pony, they greeted 
him with thin bleats and came towards him. On the 
hard brown ground their feet made a dry rattle. Voley 
grunted as he surveyed them. He and his mate worked 
from the first light, dipping them in wash troughs to 
kill the eggs of blowflies. During May the farmer had 
decided to sink a well upon Brakspear Down, and the 
landlord of the Night crow Inn still worked at it during 
the day with his nephew from Cryde. With ruddle- 
smeared arms and shoulders they hewed the solid rock, 
working with crowbar, sledgehammer, and blasting 
powder. After two months’ work they had excavated 
thirty-two feet, but no water had been found, in spite 
of the repeated twisting of hazel forks which they de¬ 
clared an indication of a stream beneath. 

Winged insects increased as the sun swept up to the 
98 


DOG DAYS 


99 


zenith. In the sunken lanes hid the horse flies that 
rose silently to draw blood whenever man or beast 
passed by. Eveline and William carried a whisk of 
twigs to beat them away. They came unbeknown and 
settled on the qeck or the wrist, until a sharp sting be¬ 
trayed them. Often she pretended that one was on his 
back, giving him a vigorous beating, laughing while she 
did so at his protests. 

Every morning they met on the Corpsnout, and 
wandered down to the sands, or to Sealion Cove. 
Never a sad thought came into William’s mind; his 
eyes were merry, he was strong and lithe; he talked 
quickly and bubbles of humour and laughter rose all 
day to his lips. He sang songs, and played the buffoon 
for no reason at all. He delighted in seeing her eyes, 
and often would ask her to look at him, so that he could 
dwell upon their brightness. He told her during lazy 
hours how he had pined throughout the war for the 
love and companionship of women, and how he had 
longed to go to his village: and being there, how rest¬ 
less and miserable he had been. 

“Where is your home?” she asked once. 

“Near Colham—a place called Rookhurst.” 

She seemed astonished, looked intently at him, 
laughed quietly to herself, seemed about to say some¬ 
thing, hesitated, then changed the subject and asked if 
he had ever been in love. 

“I thought I was once. I remember that she used 
to insist that I had an unhealthy mind, because I felt 
most deeply the things that never troubled her—the 
migration of birds, for instance. Of course, I see now 
how fatal any union between us would have been. For 
me, it was an attraction of like for unlike, and that is 
a very strong one. But it cannot last. Perhaps unions 


100 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


were not meant by Nature to be permanent. Mar¬ 
riage,” he said with a wise air, “is only made durable 
by links of taste—if one has enthusiasms in common, 
they usually last, whereas the links of mutual attrac¬ 
tion don’t. If only Keats could have outgrown his 
love for Fanny Brawne—if only he had been well— 
what things he would have done!” 

She asked to be told about that immortal tragedy 
of love unrequited, and he told her. 

“I believe I must be a sort of Fanny Brawne,” she 
said wistfully, when his voice was silent, “although a 
man once called me ‘Dolores’—what an awful compli¬ 
ment.” 

“You’re like Madeline in the ‘Eve of St. Agnes.’ ” 

A buzzard called whee-oo above them, and at the 
base of the precipice the tide whispered among the 
rocks. They had walked to the snout of the headland, 
pink with sea-thrift, and were sitting at the brink of 
the precipice, on the wild thyme and among the 
trembling feathers of seabirds. Lundy Island was half 
dissolved by an azurine mist lying over the calm sea 
that seemed after the sweltry light of day to have been 
bleached of its deep colour. 

“There’s Jarrk the seal!” he pointed suddenly, ex¬ 
cited as a boy, with sudden vivacity in his brown eyes. 

A black head was thrust up in the water five hundred 
feet away. He stood up and shouted, but it did not 
stir. When its lungs were filled with air it turned, 
showing a sunsplash on its dark body, and disappeared. 
He turned to the south. From here could be seen the 
Santon Burrows behind a shallow coast which was 
broken by the wide estuary of the Taw, confluent near 
its mouth with the swift Torridge. Once he had toiled 
throughout a windy March day to reach the flats of 


DOG DAYS 


101 


the river and to watch the wading birds. His foot¬ 
prints as he journeyed onwards, eager to reach the 
river, had trailed past the ribs of sailing craft long 
sunken in the sand. The dunes were covered with 
spike grass; territory occupied only by rabbits and 
stoats. Where the sandhills ceased a green and brown 
tract of land, divided by dykes and hedges, extended 
for many miles. There the wild swans flew with geese 
and duck, curlew, whimbrel, plover and sandpiper. At 
night a booming bittern fished in the dykes; by day the 
rare marsh harrier hunted rabbits and small birds. On 
the flat wastes were cattle shippen and linneys, so small 
when seen from Brakspear Down as to appear the size 
of the specks of stone. There was one large house, sur¬ 
rounded by trees. The Santon Mires had been claimed 
from the sea, which had ebbed from them centuries 
since. Under his hand he gazed at the estuary glister¬ 
ing like the track of a snail, seeing across it the water¬ 
side houses of Appledore nearly resolved into golden 
vapour and the sky. 

“It is very beautiful here,” her voice said dreamily. 

A titlark in corant dive of joy fell behind them, in 
its bill a song-straw pulled from the sun. 

“We are living like Immortals,” he said. 

“What is this little bone in the grass, Billy?” 

She held out a tiny white fragment. 

“It is the leg bone of a small bird, probably a finch.” 

“Poor little thing,” said Eveline, “I wonder how it 
died?” 

“Probably one of the peregrines caught it.” 

“Doesn't it seem sad that only this bone remains of 
a beautiful living thing, that used to sing and to flutter 
its wings, and love its mate? Isn't it a terrible thought 
that everything goes to dust, lips and hands, all, all to 


102 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

dust—blown by the wind anywhere. 0, I will not be 
buried in the ground.’’ 

“ ‘With the carrion worm mining in the seat of in¬ 
tellect/ ” he quoted. 

“I cannot bear that thought.” 

“Few people can. Only those who believe in the un¬ 
changing spirit can regard death with equanimity.” 

“Don’t let us talk about such things.” 

“ ‘Even if there be no immortality, at least I shall 
have had the glory of that thought,’ ” he quoted again. 
“O Jeffries, my Jeffries!” 

“Is that from the book you showed me?” 

“Yes.” 

“It also said that to-day is everything.” 

“It is easy to believe, in this loveliness of air and sea 
and sky that to-day is everything,” he said. 

“It is more than that to me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you feel that anything wonderful has come 
into your life?” 

“I think so,” he said, looking at the sun sinking be¬ 
hind Lundy Island. 

She said gently: “That means no. No, of course, 
you don’t regard me as I regard you. Why should you? 
Look at me, look at me, don’t turn away.” She was al¬ 
most sad. As he would not look at her she stood up, 
and stared across the sea to the Santon Burrows. 

“Oh, you do make me feel ashamed of myself,” she 
almost whimpered. “Nearly as ashamed as I felt weeks 
ago by the well.” 

He did not move; and soon, as though tired of inac¬ 
tion, she rose and stood on the lip of the precipice. 

“Be careful,” he cried aloud his anxiety. 


DOG DAYS 


103 


“Oh, don’t worry about me,” she declared, walking 
away. He watched her disappear round the hunch of 
the promontory. 

Afterwards he followed along the stony path to 
Cryde Bay, watching the packs of swifts that wheeled 
in the air, aloof from all other birds. They fled scream¬ 
ing, hunting their prey as they played. Martins flew 
in happy parties just above the cliff line, but there were 
no swallows. For years their numbers had been les¬ 
sening. During April William had lamented the 
dwindled swallows; now he thought of them hardly at 
all. 

She ignored him when he reached her. She sat by 
a hill stream, on a patch of yellow trefoil snapping the 
yellow flowers from their stalks. 

“Don’t do that, Eveline,” he begged of her. She 
pulled a handful and flung it at him; there were tears 
in her eyes. He took her hand, pleading forgiveness. 
Her yielding humility made sweeter the reconciliation. 
The rich light of evening slipped away into dusk and 
moonlit peace. Till half-past eleven they wandered 
over quiet sands where ring-plovers called tu-lip tu-lip 
as they sped by the sea. 

“To-morrow will be a full moon,” she said as she 
bade him good-bye. “0, Willie Maddison, think what 
the sea will look like from the hill—you won’t run up 
a beam away from me, will you?” 

All the next day, as though overcome by the sun’s 
furnace that seemed to fuse sea and sky into a candent 
blue puddle, they and the dogs lolled on the Vention 
sands, bathed in the pools and the sea. A swooning 
wind had been blowing off the land all day. They 
could hear the rattle of sheep’s feet on the hard turf 


104 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

of the hills as if they were near them, so distinct was 
sound in the shimmering air. In a valley miles inland 
the puffs of the Ilfracombe train were audible. 

She wore her dark blue bathing dress, and her face 
and neck seemed untouched by the light and fire which 
burnt to a deep hue his face and limbs, and burnished 
his brown hair. He touched her knees and shoulders, 
asking her why they were brown and not her face. She 
replied,, “That’s a secret, William!” but afterward 
showed him a bottle which she said contained an old 
country recipe against sunburn, a lotion made from the 
blossom of elderberry, rose, and an essence of a corn¬ 
field flower called fumitory. 

“My grannie told me years ago how to make it.” 

They sat with their backs to a grey rock on the hot, 
loose, white sand. Yellow flags were in bloom on a 
shelf of land twenty yards in front of them, where the 
paths led to the barley above the cliff. A band of swal¬ 
lows came down to the sands and sped twittering for 
awhile before returning to their nest under the sheds of 
the inland village. Tall green reeds on their left gave 
forth a gentle rustle as they moved their plumes and 
pennons. A steady roar came from the returning 
spring tide, but through the roar they could hear the 
cries of sheep on the hills above, and the petulant chat¬ 
tering wails of young kestrels from their eyrie among 
the thorn-brake. Beyond the reeds and the short slope 
above them an intense blue met the barley-hail stirring 
the edge of the sky. Spires of sorrel stretched up with 
thin grasses, where butterflies clung and rested. It was 
time for tea, and Eveline left him to get driftwood for 
the fire. Her bare feet on the loose sand made a 
musical, purring sound, and so bright was the light 
from the sky that her grey sun-shadow seemed to 


DOG DAYS 


i °1 

shrink into the glistening specks. He observed her 
stooping to gather sticks, singing, happily absorbed in 
her task. She moved in simplicity as though passion 
and thought had never come to her, untroubled like the 
white gull gliding over the sea. He became eager to 
see her knees as she bent down, so rounded and smooth, 
and unlike his own, which were hard and bony. Her 
loose auburn hair fell over her shoulders and the 
powder-blue stuff of her dress. She smiled at him, and 
he saw her white teeth as she tossed back the tresses. 
He watched her, feeling suspended in the clear air 
whose colour was so pure and unsoiled. 

A flock of daws and rooks flew high over the beach, 
wheeling in the warm air ascending, and circling and 
twirling and slipping past each other with cries of joy, 
and as he looked up they veered into the sun and were 
hid in blinding light. In roll and agitation they were 
through the radiance, and sailing down to their nesting 
ledges in the cliffs. 

She came back with twigs and bits of fir-bark, a 
broken basket and several lumps of sea-coal. He made 
a fire between two boulders, and boiled a kettle filled 
from a trickle of spring-water among the rocks. She 
made tea in the kettle, and they drank out of the same 
cup, declaring that it was the nicest tea in the world. 
Scalded cream and raspberries they ate with a crusty 
cottage loaf, using flat stones for plates. They spoke in 
broken sentences, with nods and single words. Their 
thoughts were conveyed by a glance, a smile, a look. 

After tea they dressed and sauntered to the line of 
the tide, climbing a rock and sitting together while the 
sea came swiftly over the sands and the waves broke 
below them. The sun was high in the west, the sea 
azure at the end of the headland, and in silver glitters 


io6 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

spread across to Lundy Island, which was consumed 
in shining mist. Five black spurs of rock were in the 
western silver path a quarter of a mile in front of them, 
the jagged outlines brazen as though heated almost to 
melting. Slowly the burning sea reduced the points, 
the waves threw spray over them, and a mist of steam 
arose. Against their own rock the rollers were crash¬ 
ing and seething, pouring off in cascade and waterfalls. 
The air was cool and fresh. She was splashed by a big 
ninth wave and pressed herself against him. A sunbow 
came out of the broken wave, gave them delight, and 
fled. He put his arm round her, and left it there long 
after the comber had beaten its strength away on the 
sands behind them. The lobe of her ear showed 
through her hair so loosely coiled, and he had a desire 
to fondle it with his teeth. 

At sunset they scrambled along the rock and jumped 
off above the tide. Slowly they went along the sands 
and up through the dunes and over a wasteland where 
grew vipers’ bugloss and tall mulleins among brambles 
and tufts of burnet rose, and so through the heather 
and ling to Brakspear Down, often turning in en¬ 
chantment of the ocean seen from the high ground. On 
the horizon Lundy Island was grape-coloured, and ris¬ 
ing baseless in a golden fume between sea and sky. 
Two mated buzzards were soaring in tranquil circles a 
mile above the world. In awed silence they sat and 
looked across the sea. They were alone with the wan¬ 
dering air and its birds. William’s heart yearned for 
the meaning of beauty, wild emotion rushed to him as 
he thought of the everlasting loveliness that one day 
he must leave. His spirit said that It was immortal, 
that freed of earthly thrall It became merged into a 


DOG DAYS 


107 

glory which forever irradiated matter, manifesting 
itself in bird and flower, in animal and man. From the 
germ or the seed It built Itself in the form of an in¬ 
tellect or a blossom, a soft coloured wing or a reedy note 
of song. Eveline cared nothing for the abstract. Her 
heart desired a perfection of life for herself, for a love 
completed and lasting; and these were only to be found 
in what to herself she called the ideal lover, whose 
every embrace would be as sweet as the first. Then the 
joy of service would ever be fresh, her beauty would 
ever be a wonder to bind him, so that in being supreme 
she would, and how joyously, make herself the slave. 

Both felt a sadness that was almost an awe and rev¬ 
erence because in thought they faced the unknown, the 
inapprehensible. He thought with wild sadness, I 
want to go out to this beauty. She thought as tears 
brimmed in her eyes, I want something for myself in 
this beauty; I want to grasp it for myself, to take it 
into my heart. The woman turned to look at the man 
who would not heed her. 

No word was spoken as with a sigh they turned from 
the luminous sea and walked through the heather and 
bracken. Ghost moths of summer drifted over the path¬ 
way as they brushed the ferns, and grasshoppers were 
singing on the ground. The moon would not lift its 
rim above the hills till the eve jars had been reeling a 
long time. Slowly and in silence they crossed Brak- 
spear Down. In the dusk the lighthouses upon Lundy 
Island were flashing their first white warning to 
mariners. Along the path they went, down the hill 
track, and into Rats’ Castle. Their entry was greeted 
by cries for food. 

At owl-light they left the cottage, and loitered on 


108 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the beach, smoking and watching the phosphorescence 
in the waves. She smoked her cigarette quickly, so that 
her cheek was frequently fired by the glow. Abruptly 
she flung it into the water: it hissed and died. 


CHAPTER X 


WHITEST WITCHERY 

Above the valley the stars were watchful and pale. 
Into the quiet night from the tower of St. Flammea’s 
Church were rolled the passing hours. At eleven 
o’clock the afterglow of sunset was over the western 
ocean. From the hill they could see the dark spread of 
water that flowed round the far Corpsnout, and regu¬ 
larly from Hartland Point came a prick of fire, which 
increased to a glare of red, then shrank to an ember 
which went out and was followed by a white-gold beam 
flashing across Bideford Bay. Curlew and wading birds 
flighted from the estuary were calling on the shore, and 
somewhere in the heather wastes near them a rabbit 
screamed in a snapped gin. As they listened with the 
echo of pain in their hearts the cry ceased, there was a 
grunting noise, and the rattle of a chain. 

Eveline clutched his arm in fear, and they remained 
still. Something was scratching at the ground, and the 
chain of the gin was rattled angrily. These noises gave 
way to that of a heavy body pushing clumsily through 
the undergrowth. 

“It’s probably Jack o’ Rags,” he whispered. 

“I’m afraid.” 

“Don’t move.” 

And now the east was distained by a yellow mist 
that floated before the moon and the bended ashtrees 


109 


110 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


against the sky formed a dark filagree. Although its 
arch was not yet risen the duskiness grew less, and was 
like a myriad grey and black atoms, whirling silently 
and sparkling lightlessly under the stars. They peered 
in the direction of the movement as it lessened, know¬ 
ing that the thing had emerged from the heather and 
was crawling over the thistled grass. The thing was 
low on the ground. It was grey, like a shadow, and 
hard to discern. It moved like a dog nearer and nearer 
to them. 

It smelt them, and stopped. Eveline made a slight 
exclamation, it rustled away swiftly, with the chain of 
the trap knocking against stones. He laughed. 

"It’s only a brock.” He explained that the badger 
was more alarmed than they had been. 

“I like that badger,” said Eveline, laughing with 
relief, “he is a very decided person. If he’s going to do 
anything wrong, he does it thoroughly. Fancy tearing 
up the trap as well! The height of impertinence! It’s 
like eloping with another man’s wife and taking his dog 
and kennel at the same time.” 

His mind was wandering again. He was thinking of 
one of his grooms, whose face had been bisected by a 
splinter of shell while he had been talking to him. 
"William had gone to see the dead man’s wife after the 
war in a Waterloo slum. He remembered her sad eyes; 
and the dog who still waited. 

Eveline unlinked her arm. The arch of the moon 
was now above the earth, and stirred by its gleam a 
blackcap roosting in the bramble began to sing. The 
low notes were soft in the night lit by moon and stars 
and quenchless afterglow. 

“I’ve made another coarse remark,” she said miser¬ 
ably, “but it slipped out before I could check myself. I 


WHITEST WITCHERY 


in 


saw humour in that animal’s escapade, and as usual 
said the wrong thing. However, I am myself, as you 
once said of yourself. I wish I were not, sometimes. I 
feel your cold disapproval.” 

“No, Eveline. I was thinking of something else.” 

“Forgotten all about me?” 

“Only for a second. How cool your hand is, Eve. I 
love your slender fingers. It’s like holding Billjohn’s 
paw.” 

“Warm heart, Billy. Your hand is c-cool, too.” Her 
dulcet voice had the tone and stammer of a nightingale. 

“But I have a cold heart.” 

“For me, yes.” 

“For everyone, I’m afraid.” 

“It will grow w-warm when you meet someone good.” 

“You,” he whispered, but she seemed not to hear. 

They sat in the heather and watched the moon. 
Their shoulders and their faces were near together. He 
drew away from her, so that he might watch the light 
on her face. How eager were her eyes and girlish, how 
sweet her lips, how his heart was filled with pain be¬ 
cause the spirit of her beauty would never be his. 

“Billy, what does it all mean—life, and my emotions 
and impulses? What does it lead to? Why do I seek 
love and never find it? What is it all for? What is 
God? O, we on earth are uncared for, wailing for light, 
but all is darkness.” 

“I will light a torch that all shall see,” he thought, 
inspiring deeply the golden breath of the stars, and 
feeling the strength of the earth in his heart. He felt 
an impatience for the feebleness of her feeling, as she 
entered all things upon her own intimate sensations. 

“All human ideas are vain, all hope is illusion, so 
what have we left to hold on to? Only love. And love 


112 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


means passion. Passion is always sad—true passion, I 
mean. Why do men fall in love with me, why do they 
say things that stir me and draw me to them? Many 
men have said they loved me, but not one of them has 
loved the real me. They have loved, or thought they 
have loved, my beauty. But to them I can give noth¬ 
ing. Billy, the moonlight is in my head. I am being 
ruthlessly frank with you, because I feel that never 
again shall I meet one like yourself. And I pray that I 
don’t shock you, for then you w T ill have done with me.” 

He held her hand and patted it. 

“Life is too much for me—it burns me up. I am like 
the earth under a drought: the life-giving sun sur¬ 
charges me.” 

The clasp of her hand made him exclaim as he looked 
at her: 

“And makes you beautiful, Eveline. I have never 
seen one so vitally alive as yourself. Your hair, your 
lips, your eyes!” 

“Why do you 1-look at me 1-like that?” she asked in a 
fluttering, husky stammer; “w-why are you so 
s-strange?” 

The moon was free of the earth and floating in the 
sky. 

“It is like an old spade guinea,” he said. 

She hid her face in her lap, and clasped her knees 
with her hands. An eve jar reeled its song on a dead 
elderberry near them, flew away, returned, sang again, 
and flew away; the moon rose up. At last he asked her 
if she were cold. 

“No,” she said. 

“Tell me, Eve?” he begged. 

“Unhappy,” she whispered. 

He put his left arm round her shoulder, hugging her 


WHITEST WITCHERY 


113 


close, feeling as though they were two discamate be¬ 
ings. Her white wool jersey was very thin, and the 
shoulder was soft. He lifted her face and turned it to 
him. The gleam from the thin worn coin was reflected 
in a tear as it rolled down her cheek. 

The bubbling songs of many eve jars were now linked 
around them. A woodowl hooted on the slopes below. 
The sea rippled away in the moonlight to the night's 
infinity. 

With his hand he stroked back the hair from her 
forehead. He touched the white brow, the warm 
throat. He smoothed the cheek with his own. The 
wild moon beauty filled his heart with a pain that was 
a delirious sensation. He turned from her, but again 
returned to cherish the lovely face. 

“You look like the Madonna," he said. 

Above them the night breeze shook the dry frame 
of the elderberry long since ruined by the salt sea 
winds. One barkless branch rubbed against another, 
causing a weary squeaking, as though in ghostly deri¬ 
sion of life with its toil and ineffectual striving to form 
leaf and blossom forever. The air was quiet again, and 
the tree, a musician unheeded and ancient, ceased its 
dreary scraping. 

“Sweet thing," she murmured, touching his cheek, 
“I believe you are a pixie." 

The air moved again more gently, drawing from the 
gorse bushes a faint sighing, and shivering in the 
heather where they sat with the stars hung over them 
like little lamps on the white branches of the dead 
elderberry tree. A moth fluttered round their heads, 
its wings touching them. She caught it, and released 
the frightened thing. 

“It has toiled for months and months as a caterpillar 


114 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

—dreaming of a night like this, when the moon would 
shine, and the night campion entice it to sip. Then it 
meets a mate—a mate, Billy, dear—and it loves, and 
then it dies.” 

“How beautiful are your thoughts; beautiful as 
your saintly self,” he spoke his wonder aloud. 

She leaned upon him, placing an arm on his shoulder 
like one whose strength is spent. She said something 
but he did not hear any word. A feeling of remoteness 
came over him, mingled with an apprehension; and 
supineness came over him, although his brain was 
calm; everything seemed unreal in the quiet and warm 
moonlight where they sat on the lonely terrace. The 
feeling of remoteness and unreality increased when she 
began to mumur deep in her throat, and closed her 
eyes, and pulled down his head. She fondled his cheek 
with her cheek, and turned her head slowly so that her 
mouth touched his lips. Her arm tightened round his 
neck, and she pressed her mouth to his mouth, while 
with a feeling of confusion still far away from him he 
tried to make himself return her kiss, lest she should 
feel scorned. He cojald not move. 

She dropped away from him and hid her face in the 
heather. She lay still, and he heard her groan. He was 
miserable with shame, and unable to speak. 

“I’ve dug my own grave,” she cried, sitting up with 
her back to him. The moon made a halo round her 
head. He moved beside her and put his arm round her 
neck. “But I I-love you so.” 

He turned her over and laid his cheek against hers, 
hugging her in a half frightened, half rapturous way, 
staring into the moonlight, trying to tell her that he 
loved her, but remaining dumb. 


WHITEST WITCHERY 115 

“You don’t like me, and I—I made a m-mistake. I 
will go-go away and not worry you any more, 
W-Willum.” 

Believing that she meant what she said, he was dis¬ 
mayed and unhappy. She stroked his cheek. He 
pulled her towards him; she resisted him, but held his 
caressing hand by pressing with her upper arm his 
wrist against her ribs. 

“Come here, Eve,” he said, excited. 

“No, you don’t like me,” she complained. 

“I do! I do!” 

“No! you don’t. You don’t!” she said, miserably. 

He struggled with her. She was strong. He felt a 
gorse bush pricking his leg, but did not care. He put 
his arms around her, drew her to his chest, and kissed 
her on the cheek. It was a beautiful and strange sen¬ 
sation to hold her masterfully, while she pretended to 
protest at his dominance. When he had hugged her 
many times, she said: 

“Billy, why don’t you k-kiss my lips?” 

He hung his head in shame. 

“Would you have to act passion, dearest? Don’t be 
ashamed to tell me, Billy. You won’t hurt my 
feelings.” 

“Yes,” he muttered. 

“Then haven’t you ever kissed a girl on the mouth 
before?” she asked happily. 

“Yes.” 

“D-don’t believe you! Tell the truth, Billy. Have 
you?” 

“No,” he confessed. 

He lay down in the heather, his hand straying in her 


n6 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

hair, while she fondled him, and he was in an ecstasy 
of peace. 

“Life is compensated for by love,” she whispered. 
“The gift of the gods; the only gift to woman!” 

So they cherished each other, cheek to cheek, hands 
straying on hair and brow. Vapourer moths passed 
by them, evejars spun their song-threads, and the mid¬ 
summer moon grew brighter as it climbed towards the 
constellation of Lyra. Eveline said sadly: 

“We will die, my darling, like the little flutter-life 
of the moth that went past. Look at the moon, so 
serene and cold in the sky. Look at her now, as among 
the stars she rides, so full, so white, and beautiful—but 
in a brief while she will w-wane, and the night be dark 
and we will be groping for her light. Oh, beloved, be¬ 
lieve what I say; do not despise me. The moth will 
be dead when the moon shines again, but it is happy 
now! Oh, W-Willum!” 

Her fingers interwoven with his, and the confu¬ 
sion of her breathing came with the sound of the low 
tide. 

“I feel such a sweet rest with your darling arms 
round me.—I can hear your heart, Eve. You won’t 
leave me, will you? I think I should die if you went 
away. 0, why are you married?” 

As suddenly as her passionateness had come, 
so it swept away, giving place to a wistful melan¬ 
choly. 

“Billy, let me go home now. I want to be alone, to 
think.” 

“Don’t go home,” he begged. “No, I can’t let you go. 
You are everything to me.” 

“Poor Billy,” she said, “you're only a child, really. I 
shall leave you alone.” 


WHITEST WITCHERY 117 

He clung to her trembling, beseeching her not to 
leave him, pressing her into the heather and hiding his 
head on her bosom. 

“Mr. Hermit, living in the wilderness,” she asked 
happily, “do you really care for me? Tell me. Tell 
me every thought you have, little boy, little sweet boy. 
Oh, Billy, you great rough thing. There now, I d-didn’t 
mean it. Oh—you mustn’t kiss me like that! Now be 
nice and take me home.” 

“All right, come on,” he said, but she melted his 
mood with her girdling arms, saying that he was a 
naughty little baby to pout. On Lundy Island the 
lighthouses were flashing intermittently. 

As they wandered arm-in-arm across Brakspear 
Down a double shot rang out, followed by a hoarse 
scream. A man shouted, several lurchers gave 
tongue, the echo rolled in the goyal; moon-spun figures 
approached. 

“Did ee zee un?” asked old Voley; “did the great 
beast run past ee this way, zur?” 

“You murderers,” shouted William, “you fools! Do 
you know what you’ve done?” 

They stood and stared. 

“What be us done, zur?” asked Brownie. 

“You’ve shot Jack 0 ’ Rags. He ran past us. Youi: 
dogs were running him! You hit him in the head, too. 
He was crying like a trapped rabbit.” 

“Gordam,” moaned Brownie, “gorbruggee.” 

Voley and Gammon grunted. 

“Be ee dead, zur?” asked Gammon. 

“Gorbruggee,” lamented Brownie mournfully, “an he 
were the shaep worritter. Gorbruggee! His sister at 
Exixir should be told.” 

“If he isn’t dead,” urged William, “those dogs will 


n8 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

tear him to bits. Hark at their cries! Quick, down to 
the mines. We must find him." 

“He’m it must have been us catched in gin t'other 
night," said old Voley the shepherd; “master girt gin 
it were for any animal to exsgape from." 

“Oomigod," moaned Brownie, “us have shot poor 
Jackierag. Her should have been in the Grubber.* My 
boys did love old Jackierag. Wisht I'd give un a bit o' 
supper more casionally. Oomigod, us'll be hunged fur 
murderers." 

“Us reckoned it were master great wolf," explained 
old Voley, as they hastened down the slope to the cove ; 
“us heer'd un znarling, and the shaep crying, and zound 
of grunching." 

The dogs’ notes became sullen in the goyal. The 
three men were frightened to go near the black mouth 
of the mine. William and Eveline went into the cot¬ 
tage to get candles, and rushlights which he had made. 
There was paraffin in the can, into which they dipped 
an old mop. This was lit, and with guttering candles 
and the flaming torch they stepped cautiously into the 
cavern. 

He went first and Eveline followed behind him, her 
hand trembling on his arm. The tunnel sloped down¬ 
wards for the first twenty steps; they strained their 
eyes forward into the murk, and paused to listen. 
Once Eveline gave a cry of subdued fear as a large fly¬ 
ing thing passed over the torch, and hitting wildly with 
her stick to keep the horror away, she knocked it down. 
It was a greater horseshoe bat, and lying on the stony 
floor its ears vibrated like a tuning fork. The thing of 
darkness had minute eyes, and a leafy formation on 


*The workhouse. 


WHITEST WITCHERY 119 

the nose gave it a vague resemblance to the wounded 
zany. 

“Look at its blood.” Eveline's voice shook. 

“It isn't the blood of a devilflutter,” growled old 
Voley; “it be Jack.” 

“Oomigod,” lamented Brownie. 

Gammon stood on the bat to kill it, and in the gusty 
torchlight they crept forward, seeing more blood on 
the stones. 

The mine branched forty yards into the hill. They 
could hear the deadened baying of the dogs. It was 
very cold, and water dripped from saturated patches. 
A chill draught blew past them, and air blowing from 
some ventilator shaft within. They came to it, and 
peered up. Bushes choked the far summit, but they 
could see a star unhidden by leaves or brambles. 
Down the left branch they stumbled, reaching at last 
what was apparently Jack o' Rags' lair. Bracken and 
straw covered the floor, and in one corner was a heap 
of gull eggshells. A musty smell hung about the walls, 
and rabbits' skins were everywhere, hard and dry. The 
oily torch flung a sootiness into the atmosphere that 
made them cough. He was not discovered, so they 
crept back to the branch of the tunnels and went down 
the other. 

A rusted truckrail led them on. They saw more 
blood. William went first with the wild light, Eveline 
following next and holding his hand. Deeper and 
deeper into the hill led the excavation, and the walls 
oozed moisture. Then before William's feet yawned 
blackness. He leapt back, bumping into her. Cau¬ 
tiously they neared the edge of the shaft. 

“I mind how they did tap water hereabouts,” said 
Brownie, “when they were sinking th' shaft. It do go 


120 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


down twenty foot, and at first were a trickle, but 
now His a regular swellet. Dogs and all be gone, 
Oomigod.” 

Eveline beseeched William to be careful, and wrung 
her hands as he peered over, holding out the blazing 
light. The sound of black water flowing unseen in the 
darkness filled him with fear. He sensed the terror of 
the mad creature’s stagger along an unfamiliar tunnel, 
the desire to conceal himself and to nurse his wounds. 
Perhaps along that black broken way he had crawled, 
nigh to death; even now the bruised bodies of man and 
dogs might be borne by the underground waters to the 
sea. A red-gold gleam on the black water, and the 
torch expired. By the draughtbent light of one candle 
they went back. 

Both William and Eveline were subdued in the cot¬ 
tage. He said that he would make some cocoa, and be¬ 
gan to split a baulk of timber that Jack only that morn¬ 
ing had brought to him. The resinous wood was soon 
gold-spluttering and the tawny flames spearing the 
dark chimney. They sat by the hearth in silence and 
meditation until the kettle hummed its small tune in 
symphony of fire and water. Eveline nursed the kit¬ 
tens, and Tatters, who loved her, slept with his head 
across her ankle. When the cocoa was made she said 
that they must drink from the same cup; and while 
she sipped the steaming liquid she looked at him with 
bedusked eyes that no longer challenged, but seemed 
humble. 

“Poor Jack o’ Rags,” she sighed, “poor desolated 
creature. I am so glad that I helped him while I could. 
I suppose he is dead? What if they find his body? 
There will be an inquest. 0 God!” 

“That water will never give up its dead,” said 


WHITEST WITCHERY 


i2i 


William in a quiet voice. “And no one will miss the 
wild idiot.” And added to himself, “Except me” 

They sipped the cocoa, speaking at intervals. After¬ 
wards he said that he was ready to escort her to Cryde 
Bay. 

“Let us talk a little longer,” she said. “I love you 
with the play of fire upon your face. Come here, I 
want to kiss you.” 

He did not move. 

“What’s the matter, Billy?” 

“I was thinking of the future. I am afraid, Eve.” 

“Of what?” 

“Of everything, but chiefly of you.” 

“Of me?” 

She confronted him, till her ardour made him yield. 

“It is foolish to talk,” she murmured; “only love 
counts. We may be dead in a week’s time. It can’t be 
wrong to love, Billy. Do you think we are wrong? 
We couldn’t help falling in love, could we?” 

“But do you love Li—— your husband?” 

“No! A thousand times no! ! But I tell you hon¬ 
estly that I like him. And I’ve told him that, too; 
only, like a man, he won’t accept it.” 

Timelessly the night went by. 

“The dawn will come soon,” he said: “we must go 
back. Let us go and bathe, near the Claw.” 

“I want to remain like this for ever, beloved. Death 
would be sweet, if it came now, while we are with the 
Immortals.” 

“But people will talk about you.” 

“I don’t care a damn. I’m so comfortably drowsy. 
No, I’m not going back. That poor man might not be 
dead after all. He might kill us.” Her voice became 
softer, like the low notes of a nightingale. “I’m so 


122 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


boo-fully tired, W-Willum. Haven't you a spare room 
where I can lay my weary head?" 

“You can have my bed. I will go up and tidy the 
room. You won't mind there being no sheets, will 
you?" 

“Of course not, Lord Tornsox. But what about 
you?" She was fondling the floppy ears of Tatters, 
whose amber-ruddy eyes adored her. 

“Oh, I can sleep anywhere," he mumbled; “I slept 
on dead men and mud often during the war." She 
shuddered. 

He went upstairs with a candle and remade carefully 
the bed. It was the fourth night that Moony Matthew 
had failed to come to his whistle. 

When everything was prepared, he knelt at the open 
window and rested his arms on the deep ledge. The 
moon was very high and silver and the stars were pale. 
A night bird cried from the hill, and another answered 
far up the valley. 

She was before the fire in the same attitude when he 
came down. She did not look round at him, but con¬ 
tinued to muse with her chin on her hands. He saw her 
profile, and his heart beat faster. 

“It's ready," he said, and knelt on the sacks beside 
her. 

She put her arms round his neck, but said no word, 
accepting but not responding to his kisses. With his 
hand he loosened her hair and shook it over her 
shoulders. He seized a tress in his hands and bound it 
round his throat, then smothered his face with it, kiss¬ 
ing it. He knelt before her, and draped it over her 
breast, so that only her face was seen, adorable, maid¬ 
enly, pure. He kissed her eyes, which looked at him 
with such tender gravity, and smoothed her eyebrows, 


WHITEST WITCHERY 


12 3 

then clasped her neck, but with impatience let go to 
take strands of her hair to plait. He dropped the 
strands to bow his head before her, tremblingly, and 
she raised his head and held it against her breast. 

“How your heart is beating! How lovely and warm 
you are! Kiss me, Eve, kiss me.” 

She hid her face on his shoulder, and shook her head, 
but held his fondling hand against her heart. 

“Not now. Be still, dear one; this moment we are 
with God.” 

“You don’t love me,” he cried. 

“0 Billy!” she whispered, “0 Billy! I love you so 
much that I am afraid of myself. Let us go back to 
Cryde.” She did not move. Her arms clasped his 
neck. She knelt, grave and solemn, before the fire. 
He wanted to be free of the warm embrace, but his will 
was supine, his thoughts were thickened. A savage 
wish to desolate himself and his love came to him; he 
wrenched away his face and flung the encircling arms 
by her side. She seemed to have no strength, no vital¬ 
ity, as though her will were lulled by some opiate. 
Without a word he went towards the door, opening it, 
and standing still. He looked at her. She was kneeling 
on the sacks, and looking at him, motionless except for 
the quick rise and fall of her bosom, but how her eyes 
were soft and shining. 


CHAPTER XI 


MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM 

,The puppies watched lest the god should try and slip 
away from them. He had endeavoured to do this 
several times recently when going swiftly up the hill¬ 
side, but as he always took his own particular scent 
with him he was easily tracked. They watched him 
alertly, because the moon was full, and the god’s move¬ 
ments might mean a fine hunt after milkydashels. 

But the god opened the door and waited. When 
their kind friend the god’s companion whispered, he 
shut the door and went to her. He spoke in a strange 
voice, and knelt on Hereward, on whom tears were 
falling, without apparently noticing that he was there. 
No pat or earfondle was given Hereward, who slunk 
away, followed by Tatters and Billjohn, to the pair of 
trousers in the corner which was despised now that 
they no longer seemed to be part of the god. And to 
their jealous amazement they had to remain there all 
night, for in the strange voice the god bade them go 
downstairs when later they attempted to follow to their 
usual rest. Thus deprived of his presence they were 
miserable, and slept fitfully. 

As the moon passed over the valley, its light came 
shyly into the room and the darkness stole softly away. 
The bookshelf became silver, with a silver-and-jet cat 
curled on the poets’ volumes. Gradually a kettle on 

124 


MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM 


125 


the table became silver-lustred. Upon the handle of 
the kettle was perched a silver headless bird. The pale 
visitant explored the dim corners of the room, and re¬ 
vealed a mass of brown and white hair that sometimes 
quivered and emitted little barks and yelps. Billjohn 
was dreaming of a canine ghoul with enormous white 
teeth and a long tail that enabled the ghoul to turn in 
its own length when running swiftest. Billjohn worked 
his feet at double their usual pace; but the ghoul over¬ 
took him and snarled at his tail. In terror he turned to 
look at it. His legs ceased to go. He tried to drag him¬ 
self down the hill, with the ghoul ever at his tail, 
always about to crack his backbone with its teeth. 

Billjohn heaved and shook on the trousers, and cries 
of terror came from him. The ghoul was no nearer, 
although its pace was terrific and his own movement 
was paralysed. He felt its hot breath on his back, and 
leapt away, and then with groaning sigh realized he was 
on the unfamiliar trousers. At his exclamation 
Grannie Gordangle jerked her head on her shoulders, 
ruffled silver-black wings, and called “Quoi?” 

Isaak stirred in the wood cupboard, and a blunt nose 
and silver whiskers peeped underneath the door; an 
eye was silver-glinting. As it rippled to the round hole 
in the cottage door Oswald emerged from behind a pile 
of boots. Billjohn rose and yawned, then realizing 
where he was, he went to the staircase door woefully 
closed, and whined. Hereward heard him, and soon 
there was a duet. Tatters, thinking there was clamour 
enough to call the god, nosed round the room for scraps. 
Finding none, he joined the invocation to the god to 
come down. But the god did not come. So after a 
shivering doze on the trousers they all went through 
the rough hole into the cold dawn, just as the owl drift- 


126 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


ing whitely down the goyal came to rest on the sill. He 
flapped to his beam, and as he folded his wings, a 
feminine protest disturbed his sensitive ear-drums. 
One skirl of dismay he made, then pursued by swifts 
and wagtails he beat up the hillside, and disappeared 
over the hill. 

Diogenes the carrion crow went three days later. It 
was useless to remain when there was no longer a voice 
calling him that meant food. He had discovered that 
there was plenty to be eaten in the goyal; young birds 
in their nests, young rabbits that sat still with filmy 
eyes and drooping heads after the weazels and stoats 
had drunken their blood, yellow snails by the brook, 
bronzy sun-beetles, and strange woolly animals that 
never moved, but smelled sweetly in the heat. Neither 
Moony Mat nor Diogenes came back again to Rats’ 
Castle. 

The moon that had been the austere luminary of 
human passion fell into ruin and its gleam was dulled. 
Becky was playing with Pie one evening near the bleat¬ 
ing goats when something ran past her. She caught it, 
held it in her mouth and growled. Pie came near and 
she spat at him, so he tripped away to catch one for 
himself. Thereafter they did not care very much 
whether they were given milk or stew. Mice were 
plentiful. Oswald suffered the pain of hunger until it 
drove him to hunt on the beach for dead fish and in 
the bracken for beetles, moths, and everything small 
that flew and walked. Once he discovered two greyish 
creatures squatting on the ground, looking like feath¬ 
ered toads. They hissed, and a bird like a hawk dashed 
at him, clapping its wings over its back and trying to 
knock him over. When he saw that it could do him 
no harm, he rendered eatable the babies with two 


MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM 


127 

blows of his beak, and swallowed them as they were. 
The parent eve jars chattered in anguish, but Oswald 
did not care. Thereafter he explored the country more 
thoroughly, and managed to find plenty to eat, includ¬ 
ing frogs and small rabbits. He forgot about the tall 
wingless food-giver who seemed to have forgotten him, 
and became agile and a quick walker in spite of webbed 
feet. Oswald was not, however, quick enough to avoid 
a white grinning snap in the dense undergrowth by a 
hawthorn; but the fox, disliking the taste of his flesh, 
left him for the ants and the brown sexton-beetles. 

Grannie Gordangle the daw stayed in Rats’ Castle. 
Once she had been married, but she was now a widow. 
Had she been younger, she might have taken another 
jack immediately after her mate’s back was suddenly 
changed from smooth black to ragged red by the jave¬ 
lin-claw of Wizzle the peregrine falcon, who was pass¬ 
ing over Sealion Cove. She herself had flown in terror 
at the window of the cottage, and fallen stunned, and 
awoken in a wicker cage. For three days she had 
starved and grieved, then decided to accept the food of 
the wingless creature, liking it so much that she re¬ 
mained after her release. 

But she was not alone during the solitary days that 
followed the desertion of Diogenes. Reassured by the 
quiet of the building, other daws came to explore. A 
gay jack often perched on the ledge outside the broken 
window-pane and asked her to go for a fly roundabout. 
Grannie began to feel younger every day, and sug¬ 
gested that he come inside, but the jack was timid. He 
had such a beautiful sheen on his feathers, and such a 
spruce grey poll that she decided on impulse to. go for a 
short fly. They dallied on the Corpsnout, and met 
Diogenes, restful after a heavy meal of sheep. Grannie 


128 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


Gordangle and the jack had a meal, and by the crazy 
antics of the two afterwards, by their absurd cries and 
foolish aerial twirlings, it would appear they had de¬ 
cided to make a nest in one of the ancient holes of the 
cliff. 

Isaak forsook the cottage. Brownie in the Night- 
crow Inn one evening said he had seen the otter cross¬ 
ing the lane at the top of the valley. 

“Her were terrible fast on her legs, her were. Her 
disappeared down a drang by my tettie-patch, her did, 
suren uff, and so to the brook in Varmer Galsworthy’s 
water-meadow. Mis’r Meddlesome doan’t care, I 
reckons. Him be full of love for the ruddle maid, and 
she’m wedded a’ready, they do tell. But the gentry do 
not worry about morals, do they, Albert, midear?” 

“Judging on the papers, I should zay no!” 

“Mis’r Meddlesome be praper in love. She’m a tidy 
maid, too.” 

“I shouldn’t mind her mi-self,” chuckled Tom Vissik, 
and everyone stamped their feet, and Brownie looked 
sadly at him. 

“But it be zerious, midear,” his gentle voice warned. 
“I do mind th’ time when I were in love wi’ Bessie Kift 
down to Barnstaple afore Squire Harry died. No, doan’t 
ee laff, Tom Vissik; it was very zerious for me-” 

They laughed again, and Brownie, shaking his head 
and murmuring thoughtfully to the tankard, quaffed 
the ale at a draught. Later they did not laugh at him, 
but respected him as a man of wisdom. 

For the gennulmun appeared at the Nightcrow Inn 
one evening, and drank two quarts of ale in five min¬ 
utes. The last pint seemed to be swallowed slowly, but 
when it was drained he asked for a third quart. 
Brownie, who had been eyeing him with affectionate 



MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM 129 

pride, amazement, curiosity and delight, remarked that 
he must be thirsty. 

“Tarrible hot weather, measter.” 

The gennulmum nodded, and fondled his dogs; and 
suddenly left the Inn without a word. Reflectively 
Brownie drank his quart. Nor did the gennulum go 
over to Cryde Bay the following day, but loafed about 
the village, rarely speaking to anyone. 

“I did zee un in the churchyard reading the tomb¬ 
stones/'* Brownie told the Nightcrow Inn. “ ‘What, 
be ee choosing ees grave, midear?’ I asks un. He did 
zigh and zay, ‘Noomye, Broonie/ he zays, ‘I be here to 
think/ he zays. ‘Company o’ dead men/ I told un, ‘be 
unlucky, Mis’r Meddlesome/ ‘The faithful dead/ he 
repeats, ‘the faithful dead/ ‘Faithful/ just like that 
he spoke; ‘faithful/ he zays—he’m full of words and 
eddication! ‘You’m thinking on the war/ I says. 
‘Forget it/ I says, ‘asking your pardon, Mis’r Meddle¬ 
some/ I says. ‘Broonie/ he zays, catching my arm, 
‘Broonie, you’m a kind heart, Broonie/ I did tell the 
gennulmum that I tried to do my best to help others, 
that be all, though I couldn't afford to put money into 
the conviction bag o' Zundays, for which zome do zay 
I be mean, although I have nigh on a zgore of childer.” 

Tom Vissik, a huge jovial farmer of seventy-one 
years saw the gennulum meet the postman the next 
morning. He received a letter, and went in the direc¬ 
tion of Cryde Bay. 

“But us knew her went th’ day afore,” recounted 
Tom that evening, “because Harry Drew drove her to 
St. Brannocks Station in his jingle. My Lord Tomsox 
wull have to find another young lady. Else us must 
marry un off to one of our maids hereabouts. He's got 
it bad, aiy, aiy!” 


CHAPTER XII 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 

An hour after receiving his letter, William was sitting 
on the sandhills of Cryde Bay. The sun glared on him, 
but he was not conscious of heat or light. He noticed 
the people below on the beach, wondering how they 
could look so happy. Their laughter mocked at reality. 
He moved about from one place to another aimlessly, 
and by the stream that lost itself in the sands of the 
bay he took Eveline’s letter from his pocket. 

Tuesday, 

Two in the morning. 

Dearest Lord of Tomsox, 

Oh, Billy, my dear, if my writing is in - 
cohearent forgive me, because it is long past mid¬ 
night and I am distracketed. Billy, we must not 
meet again: Fm not worthy , but I have been pray¬ 
ing for the strength to do the only right thing, and 
that is not to inter fear with your life any more . / 
know it means never seeing your face again. You 
will think me callus and abandoned. Think that I 
am. Then you will forget me sooner. 

Billy, to think I shall not see you again. The 
room is cold, and like a vorlt. I can't sleep, so Fm 
waiting for the dawn. I can hear the tide, and feel I 
want to swim out, far beyond life and its traggedy. 

130 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 


131 

If you had only come to say good-bye. I didn’t mean 
what I said about your believing yourself to be a 
saviour of mankind. I was fretting about things, 
that’s why I was so horrid. When you get this I 
shall be gone. Poor Billy, are you unhappy? I 
wonder! You were so sweet. But I must not write 
like this. I must be strong, or I shall be coming over 
to you right away. 

In case you are lonely, I will write when I get± 
back. Don’t be angry, Billy, darling, because I’rr^ 
inclosing ten pounds. Get yourself a little present „ 
dearest, some new clothes and socks. Now it’s too 
late, I remember I never mended yours. A fine 
woman I am, ain’t I? Still, remorse is cheap, as 
you may have reelized. 

I go back to a false life, but thank God one can’t 
think if one is always doing something. I shall 
never forget you. One day you will find a true 
woman to love you, and look after you; but, Billy, 
don’t be hurt, but you mustn’t expect her to live in 
Rats’ Castle! I am laughing now, old fellow, but I 
can’t see propperly to write. 

Billy, dear, do not worry about Life. It is very 
distressing to witness your pain, believe me. But 
things will come all right. You are a brave old fel¬ 
low. Your mind is a chaos of pure beauty—and 
when you can determine its source, and can impart 
it to mankind, you will be a great man. So I end my 
letter to you, most tenderest of men, with the request 
that you think only of your vision, and no more of 
E. F. 

The tellegram came from Southampton late to¬ 
night, or I should say yesterday night, as now it’s 
nearly dawn. I know you will think I made our (or 


i32 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

rather my) silly quarrel an ixcuse to cleer off, and 

that I knew Lionel was coming home, but 1 swear I 

didn't, Billy dear. Sweet Tornsox! 

The letter, scrawly and with misspelled words, and 
smudged as though with tears, was re-read several 
times. The reader was recalled to reality by the sound 
of footfalls beside him. Looking up, he saw a small 
and slender girl wearing a green jersey. She was about 
eighteen years old. He was conscious of a strange 
misery; the girl had a resemblance to Eveline. He 
noticed her smooth and freckled brow; her fingers were 
frail, like the feet of the goldfinches sipping by the 
water. Her locks, short and curling, were tawny like 
a squirrel. 

She stood and watched the goldfinches. She whistled, 
as though she would speak to them. They splashed and 
ruffled in the stream, dipping their crimson faces, and 
twittering with joy of the cool water. He watched the 
girl, imagining that she was Eveline. She appeared 
unembarrassed by his stare. When the finches had 
flown, she turned and said: 

“Isn’t your name Maddison?” 

“Yes.” 

“Willie Maddison?” 

“Yes.” v 

“I thought it must be. You probably think I’m mad 
to speak to you like this?” 

“No, I don’t. But I’m curious to know why you 
ask.” 

“Do you know Mary Ogilvie?” 

“I used to, when I was a boy.” 

“She wrote from Findlestone, where she’s staying 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 133 

with an aunt, and said you were living near here, and 
we’ve been trying to find where to look you up.” 

“That’s very kind of you,” he replied. 

“Where are you living? No one here seems to 
know.” 

He told her, and she said that her name was Diana 
Shelley. Regarding her fingernails, the slim little crea¬ 
ture added, “Are you fond of music?” 

She spoke with hardly a movement of her lips, with 
a lack of animation; her eyes were of the intense blue 
of the wild chicory flowers growing at the water 
side. 

“I would walk miles to hear music ” 

“Then walk to church next Sunday after evensong. 
I’m playing for an hour. Half past seven. Come to 
tea, if you’re not doing anything particular. You know 
the place? Monks’ Orchard. Anyone’ll tell you. 
Come to lunch, if you like, or come over in the morn¬ 
ing. Mother will be glad to see you. And you might 
meet Mrs. Ogilvie.” 

“Thank you very much.” 

“Bring them, if you like,” pointing with one foot to 
the puppies. “I must go now.” 

She acknowledged his bow with a slight inclination 
of her head, and strolled away to some girls on the 
sand who had been looking at her. Alone once more 
he read his letter twice, and then went to the rock 
where Eveline had sat and removed her shoes and 
stockings. Happy family parties passed him, children 
with pails and spades and large straw hats, cheerful 
mothers and brown-faced fathers. He sat with bent 
head, staring at nothing. More people came by, glanc¬ 
ing at him curiously. Children came to stroke timidly 
the panting dogs, then they too passed on nearer the 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


134 

sea, and their cries came with the plaints of gulls. He 
sat there for nearly an hour, crosslegged, unmoving, 
while beside him a skipjack beetle, seemingly terrified 
by the immense journey, commenced to traverse the 
desert of the hot sand with tiny movements that were 
almost fevered, so laboured it to reach protection. 

He watched the journey of the skipjack beetle. It 
left behind it on the sand an irregularly braided mark. 
It was exhausted. He picked it up, and put it in safety 
near the limekiln. He walked away from the bay, 
climbing the lane across the base of the headland till 
he reached the familiar pathway to Brakspear Down. 
He stopped many times to look at Vention sands, 
which bore now such an aspect of desolation. The 
sward was brittle, and his leather shoes slipped on it. 
While he was climbing in puissant sunlight he longed 
to attain the hill’s height where he might cast off the 
burden of his anguish. Above the heather line of the 
hill the sky burned with a fiercer blue, and the upright 
stalks of the brake fern gave it a ragged fringe. At the 
summit he flung himself down on the sward dis- 
verdured so cruelly of its summer flowers. But here 
there was no relief, no assuagement. He must walk 
on. 

Two hours after leaving Cryde Bay he arrived at 
the cottage, but when he opened the door he wondered 
why he had hurried there. Already the place brooded 
upon its desertion. A web had been spun by a spider 
between the armchair and the bookshelf, and the insect 
was hanging in the centre of its snare. A gnat was 
glued to one of the support-lines, moving wearily its 
legs, conveying along the line too small a vibration to 
warrant its seizure. The ashes of the pinewood fire 
were flat on the hearth; the plain interior of the cot- 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 135 

tage was gloomy and quiet with an absence of sound 
that told of its stagnation. He realized that an escape 
was not to be made by a contemplation of the sacks 
whereon Eveline had knelt and looked at him as she 
fondled the ears of his dog. He went out into the sun¬ 
shine, and crossed the wringing shell beach of Sealion 
Cove whence the high tide had just ebbed; again he 
felt the anguished need to be up by the sky. The way 
lay past the rusty machinery shed in whose shade 
flourished the rank growths of hemlock and nettle. A 
chiffchaff piped higher up the goyal, its unvaried song 
borne on the stir of hot heather wind. The three dogs 
followed patiently, but immediately he sat down they 
seemed to collapse, and lay on their flanks, panting, 
with red tongues lolling over white fangs. A pair of 
ravens, surfeited after their meal in Deadsheep Gulley, 
passed over at a great height, and the sound of their 
croaking floated lazily down the shimmering sky. The 
sun scorched his cheeks; the dogs sought the little 
human shadow, but groaningly crept away again to 
seek coolness. Butterflies went by in the sunshine, 
a scent of wild thyme mingled with the scent of the 
sapless grasses; endurance was without avail, and he 
returned to the Cove. 

Inside the doorless machinery shed there was a green 
shade. The glass of the window frames was missing, 
and the woodwork rotten, the red mortar crumbling be¬ 
tween the hewn blocks of ironstone. A wren had its 
nest in a hole in one wall, and four tiny faces peeped 
forth, awaiting the parents. Their black eyes showed 
no fear of the human, nor of the dogs that immediately 
flopped down on the rubble and slept. No birds came 
with caterpillar or spider, and the little drowsy eyes 
of the nestlings narrowed and closed with their heart- 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


136 

beats. He watched them, his thoughts straying back 
to the days of his boyhood at Rookhurst, when such a 
simple thing would have given him joy. 

The forge, with its dilapidated chimney, stood near 
the shed, nearly hidden by elderberry, gorse, and 
bramble. A carrion crow’s skeleton now rested upon 
the bellows, with a gold ant lurking within the 
shadowed cave of its white skull. At the base of the 
stonework was a heap of jagged iron ore, with creepers 
of bramble wandering over it. He pulled at one, and 
saw that it had put down a root over a foot into the 
pile, searching for ground wherein to obtain lodgment. 
Thus did the creeping plants of the earth care for the 
derelict works of man who by power and flame once 
crushed the iron heart of the rock. 

He saw the dragonish flowers of viper’s bugloss 
growing, and was reminded of the stoneheaps on the 
Colham road along which in faraway years he had been 
wont to make such lagging progress to school. Brown 
flowers of houndstongue, with their mousey smell, grew 
with them, the underside of their leaves a resting place 
for yellow trumpet-snails that would put forth their 
horns in the dewy twilight; when the glow-worm 
should seek to numb them with its poison. The plants 
were food for snails, the snails were food for glow¬ 
worms, the glow-worms were food for birds, and the 
birds were food for hawks and animals of prey. The 
human race was preyed upon by disease. And a taking- 
back into the earth was inevitable for the humblest 
weed under his feet. It would seem, therefore, that all 
endeavor was futile: the species might have its guard¬ 
ian, its godhead; but there was no heavenly protection 
for the individual; from dust it came, whether man or 
weed, and to dust it returned, its life like a spark struck 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 137 

by steel from flint. In the light of fact, how feeble and 
frighteningly baseless seemed the imagined creeds and 
religions of mankind, of black man, of brown man, of 
white man—all so certain of eternal happiness after 
death. In vain his lonely spirit beat against the bars 
of truth. 

At nine o’clock that night he was playing whist at 
the Nightcrow Inn, partially drunk. His partner was 
the bowler-hatted Brownie, who under the influence of 
ale sang snatches of some fuddled song about a man 
visiting another man’s wife during her man’s absence, 
and owing to an unexpected return the intruder was 
forced to hide up the chimney, perched on the chain- 
bar. The owner of the cottage lit a fire, and the in¬ 
truder was soon shrivelled up. This folksong had over 
twelve verses, and sometimes the singer’s memory 
failed him, so he inserted verses from Seagull , fly away 
over the foam. Their opponents were Muggy, who sat 
in his usual corner smoking a cigarette held in a long 
tube, and Tiger, the famous cliff-scaler. Tiger, clad in 
a dark jersey, slapped the cards down with wild bel¬ 
lows, his eyes fierce as those of the peregrine falcons 
whose breeding ledge he had so often robbed of the 
lanners. He usually shouted, since his occupation of 
blacksmith and fisherman, particularly that of fisher¬ 
man pursued in rains and gales, had quickened his 
softest tones into gruffness. The nervous energy that 
enabled him to swarm a hundred and fifty feet hand- 
under-hand down a single rope and up again required 
some outlet during rest, and the release was made in a 
constant tapping of his left foot on the floor of the Inn, 
in his excited acclamations and exclamations, and in 
quick gulps at his beer. 

Willjam suddenly said he could play no more, and 


138 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

sat down in a corner. Tiger began to tell him about 
his climb of Raven Rock some time in the past, when 
his wrist was sprained and he had been hauled up by 
his teeth. William tried to force himself to listen, but 
his thoughts were not in the Nightcrow Inn. In his 
mind he heard her whispering to him in the night, felt 
her hot breath against his mouth, caressed her smooth 
body that in the darkness, unseen, had seemed so pure 
and white to the touch. Every thought of her wounded 
his mind the more; wildly he wondered how the pain 
was to be endured for the rest of his life. He drank 
another quart of ale. 

The minute hand of the clock was approaching the 
hour of ten when the door of the Nightcrow Inn 
opened, and a ragged man seemed to creep shamefully 
into the room. Immediately he was shouted at by the 
dozen men nearest the door, and one youth pushed him 
over. The newsvendor, for such he was, sprawled on 
his hands and knees, and from the floor he whined at 
the injustice. The laughter that was given to the 
sight of this comic play provoked a ploughboy to seize 
his bag and empty the papers on the stone floor. Wil¬ 
liam noticed that the ragged man's ankles were raw 
and bleeding, for he wore big boots without socks. His 
head was cropped, his jaws toothless, with brown 
stumps, his skin the colour of a worn copper coin. An 
old shirt, from which the collarband had been ripped, 
was visible because the lapels of his frockcoat (which 
dragged on the roadway when he walked) flapped open. 
He had tied up the bottom of this coat with string, in 
order to prevent the wastepaper he collected in the lin¬ 
ing from falling out of these improvised sacks. Some¬ 
body seized his boot and tugged, amid laughter; the 
ploughboy pulled the oddmedoddery frockcoat, the rot- 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 


139 


ten stitches gave way, and hundreds of paper, card¬ 
board, cigarette, and wrapper fragments fell out of 
the pockets. 

William realized the man’s anguish when a whole 
day’s labour was scattered on the floor of the Night- 
crow Inn. He went to help in the salvaging, kneeling 
down to do so. The horseplay stopped, and others 
aided him. Tears rolled down the bony face of Jake. 
His billycock fell off, betraying the storage place of 
several crusts. William bought a quart for him. The 
ploughboy muttered a good-night, and went down to 
the King’s Arms for a final drink. The landlord of the 
Nightcrow continued to turn the pages of a tom and 
grimy volume that he had picked up. Jake seized it 
from him, whining that it was valuable. William 
looked interested, so Jake offered it to him for six¬ 
pence. He replied rather coldly that he did not want 
it for sixpence: for a moment he was hurt that Jake’s 
gratitude should express itself in this manner. Then 
he noticed that it was a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide. 
He thought that he would look at Findlestone, because 
Eveline lived there. The seed of the idea sprouted and 
grew rapidly in the imaginative soil so richly fertilized 
by the beer he had drunken. 

He purchased the tattered copy for the sum asked, 
and tried to find the seaside town of Findlestone. 

“Looking for a train, zur?” enquired the landlord, 
after five minutes’ search. 

“Yes,” muttered William. 

“There be none now till Monday.” 

“Hard to find the place, zur?” he next heard him say. 

“Yes, I can’t read it,” replied William, as he flung 
the book back to Jake, who had just sold his quart of 
beer to a poaching fellow called Tom Fitchey for eight- 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


140 

pence. Jake picked it up and went outside, returning 
just before closing time with a sack, into which he 
stuffed his precious rubbish. William swallowed an¬ 
other quart of ale. 

“Here’s a local time-table, zur,” said Gammon, hand¬ 
ing him a small blue book. William found a list of 
the trains to Exeter, made an untidy copy of them, and 
glanced listlessly at the advertisements. These in¬ 
cluded, for some reason, a short essay on the rare wild- 
flowers of the district. The name of the Scarlet 
Cranesbill seemed to stand out upon the flimsy paper, 
for he remembered that Eveline had told how she had 
found a plant by a stoneheap near Cryde Bay, how 
she had said that its name was remembered from child¬ 
hood days. He realized that the name of the flower 
must have held her idle fancy as she .herself was 
deliberating the desertion—immediately after the de¬ 
parture of Captain Collyer, for it was then she had 
mentioned it. With a piercing anguish at the thought 
he joined the labourers stamping out of the smoky inn. 
He fell over a prostrate form outside; it was Brownie. 
They took half an hour to reach Brownie’s cottage a 
quarter of a mile away, both singing while they dragged 
each other in spirals and parallelograms down the lane. 

Mrs. Brown, attracted by the dreary moaning of 
some song, opened the door of the cottage just as Wil¬ 
liam, lying on the roadway with Brownie’s arm around 
his neck, was pointing at a star. 

“Fifty million times as big as the sun, Brownie. 
Think of it, Brownie. Where’s our little planet in this 
system, Brownie?” 

“Migord, Mis’r Meddlesome, I wisht I knowed where 
my feet were to. I tried to get upwards, but be dang 
if I can, zur.” 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 


141 

"Doesn't the thought terr’rize you, Brownie? What 
are we? Coming and going like a spark—just bits of 
life—coming and going, Brownie—and yet—Brownie 
—we don’t stick together.” 

“Gorbruggee, zur, I do love ee, and will stick to ee, 
fur you’m a praper gennulmun. Now I do fear when 
my missus do zee me. She can speak politically fierce. 
That be her Welsh blood, gordam.” 

“Brownie, you fool!” interrupted her voice from the 
gloom, “get up, now at once, immediately. There’s 
drunk you must be, and brought home by a gennulmun 
who should have knowed better than to get 
intoxicated.” 

“Now, doan’t ee fret eeself, my maid,” came the sep¬ 
ulchral tones of Brownie. “Mis’r Meddle bant innocu- 
lated—he’m tarrible tired and resting. So I guaran¬ 
teed this gennulmun a bit o’ zupper-” 

“Supper? Supper? At this time of night. Supper? 
Duw Anwyl!” 

The dogs were licking William’s face, and Billjohn 
was settled to sleep upon his chest. He could see an 
indistinct white blur that was apparently the apron of 
Brownie’s wife. He wished that she would go away, 
so that he might talk with his companion recumbent 
beside him. But already Brownie had commenced 
to get on his feet. He pushed Billjohn away, and 
stood up; the white blur of Mrs, Brown’s apron slid 
up the sky, and he was lying on the roadway with 
Brownie endeavouring to speak, but unsuccessfully. 

Mrs. Brown went away. She came back with a pail 
of water, and threw it over the men and the dogs, then 
went in and slammed the door. Brownie crept into the 
hedge on his hands and knees, and soon began to snore. 
Once in the night William awoke, remembering where 


142 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


he was, and feeling a quietude under the stars that- 
made remote all human joy and sorrow. In the water- 
meadow behind the cottage a corncrake rasped an un¬ 
varied song as it stalked a way through sedge and 
marsh-grass uncropped by the cattle. Up the valley 
came the roar of waves beating on the coast. A mouse 
pursuing its lowly quest among the ferns and dead 
leaves ventured across the road, and took sanctuary 
under his boots as Tatters whined in sleep. Then it 
passed on, climbed the rough wall, and entered the cot-. 
tage to search with the cockroaches for scraps. 

He lay at peace with life. The night was warm and 
comforting, like a bird overshadowing its young. So 
unbounded was the range of human thought that he 
could imagine himself to be at the margin of life in¬ 
destructible. The wonder of existence, of the power 
that enabled him to touch with his outstretched fingers 
the ironstone of the road, of the thought that could 
envelop in its comprehension, during the fraction of a 
second, the whirling bands of incandescent gases 
around the largest star flaring in space—the wonder of 
these things indicated the existence of deity. This 
thought suffused him with an exalted joy; his spirit 
seemed to break from his brain and to travel beyond 
the tranquil orbit of the earth. Then once more he was 
lying on the cold ironstone, and the clock in St. Flam- 
mea’s church was tolling the third hour of the new day. 
Brownie still reposed in the hedge bottom; but his 
regular breathing died away, and William himself was 
asleep. He was awake instantly afterwards, it seemed, 
and gazing at the round black eyes and spread white 
wings of Mooney Mat hovering enquiringly just above 
his head. The bird hung still for awhile, its feathered 
foot dependent, then sailed away in the direction of 


AT THE NIGHTCROW INN AGAIN 143 

the church tower. He rose, and pushed through the 
hedge. Among gossamery grasses his feet moved, until 
he had reached the top of the hill, and was nearer the 
aspiring larksong. He stood at the edge of a wheat- 
field, looking at the dawn that was like the arm of a 
dusky gipsy hung with silver bangles, for the new moon 
was rising over Dunkery Beacon with the morning star 
beside it. 


CHAPTER XIII 


TO FINDLESTONE 

When eventually he came back to the roadway a little 
fat boy, with eyes merry and black as currants, was 
poking Brownie with a stick, and chuckling as he did 
so. He was less than two feet in height, dressed in a 
pair of girlish knickers, with frills, supported by but¬ 
tons to a flannel shirt. His bare feet and legs were 
brown as a sparrow. 

“Go on, ye old dawbake!” he urged, jabbing with 
the stick. “Wake up, ye mazidawk;” and when he saw 
William he laughed merrily, rolled his black round 
head, as he said, “This be my feyther, Mis’r Mas’n.” 

“Hullo, Tikey,” said William; “now, don’t be an 
unkind boy and hurt father.” 

The child grinned, rolled his head about, and struck 
his parent with the stick, talking all the time. 
Brownie opened his eye and stared at his youngest son. 
Seeing William, he sat up, passed his hand over his 
head and said that he were tarrible cold. 

“Ye’ve been droonk again, ye ould devil,” gloated 
Tikey; “ye just wait till me mither gets hold of ye.” 

A girl slightly larger than Tickey came round the 
cottage wall, followed by others at varying intervals. 
Eventually the father had nearly a dozen young chil¬ 
dren playing around him. Tikey stole his bowler and 
put it on his own head; but it was too small for him 

144 


TO FINDLESTONE 


H5 

and he had to hold it in position. Brownie got up and 
went round to the cottage entrance. There he saw his 
stout wife. She was a Welshwoman from Newport, 
and had met her husband on a steamer trip in the 
Bristol Channel: he had been very sick; her maternal 
kindness had urged her to hold his head; and ever since 
she had held Brownie. 

“Ach-y-fy! you’re a fine one, and no mistake. 
Drinking. Well, well. And with a gentleman who 
should have knowed much better, do you hear? And 
what about me and all my small children? And Tikey 
wanting new boots to his feet, poor bach. But what 
does their dad care, I wonder. Not very much, I 
should say. A good for nothing——” 

“Doan’t ee talk zo, my maid, doan’t ee-” 

“Indeed, don’t you dare to tell me off. I’m a proper 
wife and mother, and you, why, you’re just a bag of 
good-for-nothing bones and skin, look you. If I should 
think to stick a pin in you, beer and water would run 
out till nothing but a greasespot was left, whatever. 
Sunday morning, too. Nice thing for you to go to-” 

“Now go easy, midear.” 

“Indeed! don’t you dare to tell me what to do.” 
Mrs. Brown’s voice as it rose in pitch resembled the 
crow of a cock. “There’s a nice thing for you to go to 
ring the bells in God’s House after a drunken night. 
And you a Methodist, look you.” 

“Wull, I bant narrow-minded, midear, and I do love 
to ring the tenor bell in the church though I be chapel 
through and through.” 

“Don’t you talk to me.” 

“You be doing all the talking, midear.” 

“Well, well, Duw Anwyl!” gasped Mrs. Brown, turn¬ 
ing to William. 




146 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“I be dalled if I like to hear too much political speak¬ 
ing,” muttered Brownie, a forlorn penitent on his 
ragged legs, and passing a weary hand across his nar¬ 
row brow. 

Mrs. Brown began to cry, and went into the cottage 
and knelt down by the hearth. From a sawn barrel used 
as a cradle she pulled out a swaddled baby and rocked 
it violently on her bosom. Brownie invited William to 
breakfast, and they walked quietly into the one living 
room. Brownie sat down beside his wife on the settle, 
making attempts to take the infant from her, but she 
held it away. Brownie put his arm round her neck, 
and with a swift movement she thrust the baby to¬ 
wards him, dropped it into his lap, and rushed upstairs. 
Tikey and other children clustered round their father, 
laughing at the baby, who smiled at them. They clung 
to Brownie’s legs, called him dear daddy, and wrestled 
with each other for his caresses. 

“Poor feyther’s been out all night.” 

“Ha, Granfer Mas’n, ye can’t catch I!” 

“Now, then, young Tikey, doan’t ee bite feyther’s ear 
like thaat, naughty boy.” 

“Mis’r Mass’n, ave ee any pennies in ees pocket?” 

“Tikey, don’t pull that dog’s tail, or ye’ll be bit!” 

“Yar, gitout, no dog woan’t bite Tikey, cause Tikey 
wull bite dog.” 

They yelled with laughter when William seized 
Tikey and pretended to pull off his little shirt. Tikey 
squirmed and kicked, wriggled and laughed. One of 
his brothers brought a collection of birds’ eggs to show 
him, another brought a book prize from Sunday-school, 
another showed him a bag of marbles and two chipped 
blood-alleys, saying that each blood-alley was worth 
twenty ordinary marbles. Two girls aged seven and 


TO FINDLESTONE 


H7 

nine years sat on the floor and stared at him, until 
meeting his glance they had to giggle, finally becoming 
laid out with mirth. Megan, their tall sister of fifteen, 
with dark eyes and adolescent figure, reproved them, 
blushing with shame for their behaviour. 

After breakfast he told them that he was going away 
on the morrow, by the first train. 

“Oh, but you mustn’t go to-morrow, sir!” exclaimed 
Megan, eagerly, “because us be going to have dancing 
and singing, and a great faggot fire at night. And there 
will be fires on all the Exmoor hills, and on the Dartie- 
moor hills, so parson said last Zunday.” 

“Why?” asked William. 

“It be Peace Day to-morrow, ye old silly,” shrilled 
Tikey. 

He realized how far from the workaday world he had 
drifted, not to have known what was knowledge to the 
smallest hamlet child. Twelve months ago that very 
Sunday and he had been waiting to lead his dismounted 
squadron against the German salient at Rheims, the 
commencement of Marshal Foch’s offensive, when the 
armies of France and Britain were so weary and battle- 
shocked. 

During breakfast he spoke seldom. Afterwards he 
walked with Brownie, who was shaved and dressed in 
his best clothes, to St. Flammea’s church. In the 
ringers’ room he waited while the six ringers pulled at 
the ropes, then walked to Rats’ Castle, packed a bag, 
put a volume of Keats in one pocket and a volume of 
Jefferies in the other, locked the door, hid the key under 
the threshold and commenced the return. While 
climbing the hillpath he realized that the dogs in front 
were excited by something in the bracken. It was a 
hare, throttled in a snare of brass wire, which the 


148 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

animal's frenzy had drawn tight round its neck. The 
ground in a circle around the peg was scratched up; but 
it did not struggle, because its heart was burst for want 
of air. He drew off the wire loop; the head lolled back, 
with its gentle brown eyes swelled in the sockets. He 
stroked the soft ears, the cheeks puffy with strangula¬ 
tion. It was nearly dead, it would suffer no more. His 
own throat was constricted. He broke its neck, and 
threw it away for wandering foxes and crows. But re¬ 
membering the Brown family he returned and picked it 
up, and went on through the ferns. At the top of the 
goyal he rested, looking down at the sea widening to 
blue-green immensity from the cove. Herring gulls 
wheeled above the deserted cottage, and among the 
bushes the roof of the machinery shed formed a brown 
patch on which jackdaws were perched. He took a 
final anguished look at the white beach where so often 
he and Eveline had dried in the sun after a swim, and, 
turning resolutely, walked back to Brownie's for 
dinner. 

Megan had made a squab-pie of rabbits, young 
woodpigeons and dumplings, broiled together with 
onions and carrots, sweetened with sugar. She desired 
so much to please him; he knew this, and forced him¬ 
self to eat what he did not want. In the afternoon the 
children played under an elm in the meadow, and 
William went to a sunken lane and sat down, remain¬ 
ing there till tea-time. 

After evensong at St. Flammea's church he bade 
good-bye to them. Mrs. Brown said that she hoped 
he would come back soon. The children clung round 
her skirts and shouted at one another. Brownie leaned 
against the doorpost, smoking his short cutty. William 
gave Hereward the terrier to Megan, telling her to sell 


TO FINDLESTONE 


149 

him if she could; he was a well-bred dog, he told her. 
She stammered her thanks, while Tikey rolled his head, 
and laughed between his father's legs. Megan held the 
collar of Hereward as he turned to go. 

“Us will zee ee again zomeday, zur,” said Brownie; 
“us do like ee zo that ee must come back and be th' 
squire, midear.” 

This earnest of affection moved his heart so that he 
could not reply, but only nod to them. 

“Us will keep the dog till then,” Brownie promised 
him. 

“HI make un eat wums an snails, ye girt old silly 
man,” yelled Tikey from the arch of father's legs. 

The last sight of the happy Brown family was taken 
at a turn in the lane, standing in a group and waving 
to him, but long afterwards he heard the howling of 
Hereward the dog he had forsaken. 

With the spaniels he walked through a valley, turn¬ 
ing through a farmyard and clambering up a steep lane 
that led upwards to the planet Mars rolling along in 
the southern sky. At the top of the hill he saw far be¬ 
low him the dusky flat waste of the Santon Burrows, 
bounded on the west by a shallow sea glimmering white 
where long rollers were spent in endless foam. The 
dim roar of the sea lured him to rest awhile; then he 
went rapidly down the path, reaching the main road to 
the village of St. Brannocks. It was quiet as he walked 
along the deserted streets an hour later, and down 
the turnpike road to Barnstaple. This he quitted 
for the estuary shore, where the incoming tide was 
gurgling and racing up the sandy mouth of the Taw. 
Curlews were calling under the brightening stars, which 
shone in the moving waters as he rested on the bank. 
For two hours he followed the course of the river; and 


150 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

finding a stack, he threw up the spaniels, climbed upon 
the hay, and tried to sleep. Nightlong came the cries 
of river birds, while he thrust away the spectres of 
futurity, and recalled the past in a tangle of wildest 
desire and pain. He slept between one and two 
o’clock, and rose before dawn and continued his jour¬ 
ney, having breakfast with a baker’s moulder in one of 
the smaller streets of Barnstaple. His host (who was 
about to go to the bakery and had offered him the meal 
when he had enquired for an hotel that would be open 
so early), refused to accept payment, so William gave 
him Tatters. This delighted the moulder, and just be¬ 
fore four o’clock his strange guest left with Billjohn for 
the railway station, where he purchased a ticket to 
Findlestone. As the train left the platform he saw 
Tatters struggling in his new master’s arms, and yelp¬ 
ing in agony as he watched the god going away from 
him, he knew, for all time. 


THE SCARLET THREAD 


U A heavy weight oj hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and 'proud.” 

From the Ode to the West Wind. 
























# 


% 



































* 










































CHAPTER I 


19 July, 1919 

For hours he had been looking listlessly through the 
open window at the countryside brown in the heat. 
Swishtailing cattle in the shade of drooping trees 
sought relief from the flies that buzzed and stung in the 
sunglare. The wheels of the carriage seemed to be tear¬ 
ing up the burnished rails as the train rounded a curve, 
and the engine was puffing harsh and invisible steam. 
The journey shimmered on. 

When the first outlying houses of the port came into 
view William felt weak with nervous fatigue. The 
engine seemed to crawl into the station, and stopped 
with a thump that threw him on the floor. He opened 
the door and jumped out, followed by Billjohn. 
Porters were shouting, and from far away came the 
blare of a brass band. At the barrier an argument with 
a ticket-collector seemed imminent since he had no 
dog-ticket, but this he avoided by rushing through with 
the spaniel under one arm, his bag under the other, and 
jumping into one of the dozen taxicabs waiting out¬ 
side. He flung himself into one with engine humming, 
and was about to tell the seated driver to go to the 
principal thoroughfare, when that individual let in the 
clutch and the cab leapt forward. 

A smart fellow, he thought himself, believing that 
the driver understood the situation. 


153 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


*54 

The station road sloped downwards, and it appeared 
to him as he lay back on the shiny cushions that the 
driver must crash into the houses at the bottom, at 
such a breakneck speed did they approach. But by ap¬ 
plying the brakes and locking the rear wheels he man¬ 
aged to swing round at right angles to the main road, 
merely knocking over a small tree, one of a withered 
row before shops and houses. They passed under a 
railway arch, and down an avenue, across which strings 
of flags were fluttering in the breeze. The cab made a 
continued zigzag, and he was so alarmed that he 
tapped on the glass between the driver and himself, 
but no notice was taken. 

The driver slowed up as he approached the High 
street, but taking the right-angle turn too sharply, 
thereby nearly ejecting his fare through the window, 
he again applied the brakes. The locked rear wheels 
skidded on the asphalt surface, the cab swung to the 
left and then to the right, and, turning completely 
round, knocked over the barrow of a swarthy ice-cream 
vendor, who spat at William, waved his arms, tore his 
hair, and called upon the Italian deity to aid him. The 
crowd surrounded the cab and an old gentleman who 
with half a skinful of wine inside him had been amiably 
strolling home to lunch watched angrily a large blob of 
pale ice-cream sliding down the shaven hindquarters 
of his senescent poodle, who was snuffling and shiver¬ 
ing on a lead. 

“You shall pay for this, sir!” fumed the old gentle¬ 
man, who was dressed in a baggy brown suit, a large 
brown stocktie, and a brown bowler. “Do you know 
who I am, sir? What? My name is Dodder, sir—Mr. 
Archibald Dodder, O.B.E. Have you heard of Dodder's 
Disinfectant, sir? I am that Dodder, sir!” 


19 JULY, 1919 155 

Several people began to laugh, and William, who was 
shaken by the accident and huddled in the cab, said 
that he was sorry. 

“Sorry, sir? Sorry? You say you are sorry? Is that 
all you have to say? My dog will die of cold with all 
this filthy poison over it. And you are sorry? It is my 
dog who is sorry, sir! By heaven, sir,” he turned with 
purple face to the vendor, “stop that damned gibbering, 
sir. Isn’t there an Undesirable Aliens Act to keep 
wretched riffraff like you out of the country? What 
have we been fighting for, sir?” addressing an imma¬ 
ture soldier in khaki, obviously a new recruit, who was 
staring apathetically at the glissade of cream, a cigar¬ 
ette hanging on his lower lip. “What have we been 
fighting for? For this foul-mouthed foreigner to dump 
his filthy mess upon my dog, sir, and to say that he 
is sorry? As for you, you drunken hog, I shall tell my 
friend Sir George Bogside, the Mayor, to take away 
your license!” he bellowed at the taxidriver, who with 
glazing eyes was hanging to one of the mudguards and 
trying to swing the starting handle. 

“Wha’ say?” enquired the intoxicated driver in dull, 
thick blobs of speech. “Bias’ yer soppy dog! Wants 
’aircut. Bias’ damn mayor. Bias’ Bogside. Bias’ 
whole damlot. Bias’ this damn puncture. S’Peace 
Day.” He continued his efforts to swing the starting 
handle, while Billjohn stood on the seat and barked at 
the shivering poodle, who ignored him and wearily held 
his yellow teeth and grey snout to the pavement. Sev¬ 
eral small boys were scooping up the cream, running 
away as a policeman came up. The taxidriver lurched 
sideways and the old gentleman fussily went up to 
him. 

“I am Mr. Archibald Dodder, O.B.E., sir. Member 


156 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

of the Conservative Club. I give this fellow in charge. 
He said he was sorry, sir! Outrageous, sir! I am a 
personal friend of Sir George Bogside. Now, blow your 
whistle and take them off to the station. They can be 
sorry there. My card, sir!” 

The policeman took the card, fumbled for his note- 
brook, dropped the card, picked it up, put it in his 
mouth, opened the notebook, and commenced labori¬ 
ously to copy the name and address. Abandoning this, 
he walked to the front of the cab, and copied its num¬ 
ber. The driver pulled himself hand-over-hand to¬ 
wards the seat, but the policeman collared him, and 
was invited thickly to go and have a drink with him. 

“Come on, o1’ fella’, and have a drink.” 

“I want to see your lischensh.” 

The driver seemed to be masticating other blobs of 
speech, and his eyes gistened like dabs caught in a net. 

“Bias’ lishance. Bias’ Lloyd Geor’. I’m old soldier. 
So’r you. Pea’ day. Drink.” 

While this conversation was occurring, William leapt 
out of the cab, and jumped upon the foot of Mr. 
Dodder, who danced with fury. 

“I am so sorry,” he said. 

“I knew it! I knew it! I knew you’d say you’re 
sorry. You’ve got an apologising face? Can’t you say 
anything else?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry I said I was sorry.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“Maddison.” 

“Mad as a hatter!” 

“Was yours, sir?” asked William, beginning to enjoy 
the fun, and looking at Mr. Dodder’s large hat. “I 
live at Rats’ Castle.” 


19 JULY, 1919 157 

“Rats’—Castle!” repeated William, and several on¬ 
lookers laughed. 

“So you live in a castle, do you, and then you get 
drunk and-” 

“Well, it’s a sorry sort of castle—” began William, 
and Mr. Dodder shook his fist in silent agony. 

“You’re obstructing the law,” solemnly warned the 
policeman, who had been solemnly writing in his book, 
“and, moreover, you have got delrem trimmings. I 
eard you say you’d got rats, now! It’s all evidence 
against you. Now, are you going to say where you 
live?” 

“Rats’ Castle, I tell you, in Sealion Cove.” 

“He’s drunk! He must be, to be so sorry on Peace 
Day!” fumed Mr. Dodder, gripping his arm. “He’s 
not responsible, giving false address like that. He’s in¬ 
capable. There, I’ll take charge of him, officer. A good 
dinner will sober him.” 

The driver had been making dazed attempts to swing 
the handle, and suddenly the engine was restarted with 
a roar. A score of people rushed away from in front 
and in the scramble Mr. Dodder’s bowler was knocked 
off, and a small urchin put his foot through it. The 
owner grabbed it and slapped it down on his head, and 
continued to bellow at the driver that Sir George Bog- 
side would arrange the confiscation of his license. The 
ridiculous sight of his battered hat caused more laugh¬ 
ter, which enraged him so much that he snatched it off 
and hurled it at the Italian, who was sobbing in the 
gutter. Wildly this person hurled it back, but it missed 
its owner and fell at the feet of an urchin, who cleared 
off with it. 

Dense fumes of burnt oil poured out of the exhaust, 


158 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

and the vibration of the engine caused his ribs and 
teeth to rattle as he climbed in to get his bag. Billjohn 
was lost in the crowd when he vaulted over the side a 
moment later. Men began to clamber on the cab, as 
though about to commandeer it, but jumped off when 
other policemen came up. He was shoved further and 
further from it. He had his bag; and the excitement 
lessening, he began to scan the faces in the crowd. 
Soon he reached the fringe of the mob, conscious now 
of loneliness. His dog was lost; every face was a 
strange face; everybody seemed radiant with the 
spirit of carnival; gay bunting and merriment every¬ 
where, laughter and talk—he wandered aimlessly 
down the High Street searching the faces that passed 
him by. 

Feeling thirsty, he sought the bar of an hotel, and sat 
down in an armchair. A waiter came with a tray, and 
he ordered beer. As the waiter moved away he noticed 
two young men sitting near him. One was heavily 
built, with reddish-brown hair flung back from a wide 
and tall forehead; he had a large ruddy face, small eyes, 
a slight reddish-brown moustache, a heavy jaw, a thick 
neck. He leaned forward and spoke to his companion 
in a deep voice that held tones of uncaringness and 
scoffing humour. As he spoke he rubbed together the 
palms of his hands. 

“Well, Peter, well, she's been very kind to me. Yes, 
I suppose you’re right. 1 am a rotter to run the poor 
old darling down. After all, she is a poor old darling, 
and I—oh, damn it all—I—like her. She’s a poor old 
darling.” 

He emptied his tankard, laid it down to be refilled, 
wiped his moutache, pursed his lips, frowned and 
growled— 


159 


19 JULY, 1919 

“She hath wasted with fire thine high places, 

She hath hidden and marred and made sad 

The fair limbs of the Loves, the fair faces 
Of gods that were goodly and glad.” 

“By god, it's great stuff, Peter. It is.” 

“She slays, and her hands are not bloody; 

She moves as a moon in the wane, 

White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy, 

Our Lady of Pain.” 

“I don’t know, Peter, I don’t know. By god, but 
Swinburne was a great fellow. He was. By god, he 
was. Pain made him an artist. By god, it did, Peter. 
Pain has made me a drunkard. By god, it has. Oh, 
well. Good luck!” He drank another pint. 

“Though sore be my burden 
And more than ye know, 

And my growth have no guerdon 
But only to grow, 

Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above 
me or death worms below.” 

“By god, it’s great stuff. It is. Don’t you think so?” 

“I told you before, Warbeck, I don’t care for you 
spouting Swinburne.” 

William regarded the speaker. He was a thin youth 
of about eighteen years of age, with a white moustache¬ 
less face, dark hair, and timid hazel eyes. He wore the 
cadet uniform of the Royal Military College, and as he 
lifted up his glass to drink William noticed the small 
hand that clutched it, the slender wrist on which was 


i6o 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


fastened a gold watch. Apparently he was gulping 
down whiskey-and-soda. After draining the glass he 
shuddered, as though it was distasteful. 

His companion grunted, and stared at the carpet, 
where a cigarette end was burning a small hole. 

“I didn't know, Peter. He was, I think—yes, of 
course, he was —the greatest poet since Dante and 
Shakespeare. 

‘Ah, beautiful passionate body 

That never has ached with a heart!’ 

By god, Peter, Swinburne couldn’t half drink—write, I 
mean! 

‘More kind than the love we adore is, 

They hurt not the heart or the brain, 

0 bitter and tender Dolores, 

Our Lady of Pain.’ 

By god, Peter, I don’t know, I don’t know; no, I don’t 
know, by god, I don’t, Peter. I’m getting drunk. Well, 
I’m going to have another wet one. How about you?” 

“It’s my turn to pay, Warbeck. Here, I’ll take your 
tankard. I think I’ve had enough. I’m going to tea 
with the Fairfaxes to-day.” 

“Why, you’ve only had about one, and it’s weak 
muck, too. Good lord, Peter, you aren’t half a chap. 
I’ll have a Dog’s Nose.” 

The cadet carried the glass and tankard to the bar, 
and asked in a soft voice for a whiskey-and-splash and 
a Dog’s Nose. While he was waiting, a fierce grunt 
from Warbeck caused him to glance in his direction. 
Warbeck was glaring towards the door. Turning his 


19 JULY, 1919 161 

head gradually, William saw that two men had just 
entered. Both were tall. One was booted and spurred, 
and the other wore the uniform of lieutenant in the 
Royal Navy. He had fair curly hair and blue eyes, and 
was leading on a silver chain a brindle bulldog with a 
harlequin stocking tied round its neck. 

“What are you having, Naps?” enquired the owner 
of the bulldog. 

“What have you got in the way of a cocktail that 
isn’t entirely poisonous?” said the booted one to the 
barmaid. 

“Oh, I think you’ve sampled the lot, Lord Spray- 
combe,” simpered the girl. 

“Give me anything out of a bottle that’s wet. No, 
I’ll have a martini. Shake it well, won’t you? Hullo, 
young White! Sorry to see you going to the devil. 
Whatever is that horrible brown stuff you’ve got?” He 
pointed with his riding whip. 

“It’s Dog’s Nose, but not for me.” 

“Dog’s Nose? Are you studying botany?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Oh, I see: it’s a drink, and not a wildflower.’ 

“It’s for my friend Warbeck. Beer and gin. He 
likes it.” 

“Oh, is that the gentleman?” said Lord Spreycombe, 
half turning to look at Warbeck. “I’ve often wanted to 
see him. Heard about you, young fellar,” turning com¬ 
pletely so that he leant back against the bar. Cocking 
his bowler hat over his black eyes, and pointing with a 
crooked finger, “I’ve heard a lot about you and Dog’s 
Nose. Inseparables, aren’t you, what? Thanks, 
Tubby. Well, here’s the best!” taking the cocktail and 
tossing it down his throat without letting it touch his 
teeth. “Three more like that, I think. I like ’em with 


162 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the moss on. And how about you, Swinburnus 
redivivus? Another Dog’s Nose? Or three Dog’s 
Noses?” 

William was unable to decide whether the speaker 
was sneering at the younger man, or whether an un¬ 
usual manner hid amusement and satirical good- 
humour. Everything about the Viscount Spreycombe, 
M.F.H., known as “Naps” to his intimate friends and 
to those who read The Taller, The Bystander, and 
The Sketch, seemed long and lean. His face, his teeth 
slightly projecting, his body, his coat, the narrow points 
of his leather hunting waistcoat, his thin legs in black 
riding boots. Dark crispy hair and moustache, red 
cheeks and thick red lips, keen dark eyes over which 
long lashes and deep lids lazily drooped. He wore the 
black, yellow-barred tie of Brasenose College. 

Warbeck’s face had flushed, he was nervously biting 
the nails of his fingers, and grunting uneasily at each 
remark. He rose from the chair, rubbed his hands to¬ 
gether, extinguished the smouldering cigarette end, 
and said with exaggerated courtesy as he raised affable 
eyebrows to the other: 

“Thank you, er—Spreycombe—I think is your real 
name? Three Dog’s Noses, I think!” 

“Splendid! In a jug? The bard can have this jug, 
can’t he?” exclaimed Spreycombe, seizing one filled 
with water and chucking the contents out of the win¬ 
dow. “Three Dog’s Noses for Algernon Charles the 
Second. Make it half a gallon! The bard is thirsty.” 

The four stood up by the bar and drank. William 
listened to the apparently jovial conversation of 
Spreycombe and Warbeck about foxhounds. Peter 
White spoke hardly at all, but leaned against the wet 
bar, taking occasional gulps at his glass, each followed 


19 JULY, 1919 163 

by a wry face and a shudder. The cadet stared at the 
carpet, looking distressfully round the room, listening 
to what was being said. 

“Did you enjoy your swim early this morning?” 
asked Warbeck, who seemed to be more at his ease. “I 
saw you, I think, with the beautiful Mrs. Fairfax diving 
in heroic manner from the breakwater. Her harlequin 
bathing dress is interesting. I notice you have one of 
the lady’s stockings for luck round the dog’s neck.” 

“Oh, that? Oh, yes, I took that from the lady as 
she was going in to bathe. What’s the matter with 
Peter White? If you’re feeling bad, laddie, it’s the first 
door on the right through the passage.” 

“I’m all right, sir,” mumbled the cadet. 

Lord Spreycombe turned round and swallowed the 
three cocktails lined up on the bar. Then, tilting up 
his bowler hat, “Quite ready. Ta-ta, Algernon 
Charles; don’t drink too much, or you’ll boil and bust 
at the bonfire to-night. There’s some Swinbumian 
alliteration for you. See how easy it is! Now, don’t 
look so angry—it makes you look just like a Hun. Bye- 
bye, Peter White. Hold on to your purse!” 

The satirical voice ceased as the door closed behind 
it. To his astonishment, William saw that Warbeck 
had puckered up his huge face and was crying. He 
clenched his hands and bit his lower lip, his face un¬ 
creased itself, and looking up at the ceiling, he 
muttered: 

“By god, Peter, he is a swine. He’s jeering at us 
both. How does he know all about me, unless she’s 
told him, the long lean lounging insolent hound? It’s 
intolerable. She’s about with him every day, and she’s 
no more to him than any other woman. He’s rolling 
in money. And I—by god, Peter—I—I would cheer- 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


164 

fully give my life to have her smile from across the 
road. By god, it’s intolerable, the insolence of that 
man. And what does she care? 

Wert thou pure and a maiden, Dolores, 

When desire took thee first by the throat 

And yet—and yet she is all right. I oughtn’t to talk 
about her—it’s all wrong. She is a poor old darling, 
and not very happy. I’d die for her willingly.” 

The speaker, at whom other men in the room were 
amusedly looking, wrung his hands, and tears came 
again in his eyes. His companion was clinging to the 
bar; William feared he was going to faint. He went 
to him, seized his arm, and led him to the door. His 
legs seemed swinging from his hips, and he stared 
piteously. 

“Julian, don’t leave me,” he managed to gasp to 
Warbeck, who sprang forward and took his other arm. 
“I ought to go—t’ tea.” 

“He can’t drink,” said Warbeck to William; “he’s 
always sick. Oh, god, I oughtn’t to have let him drink 
so much. That’s all right, Peter, old man—you’ll soon 
be all right. I’ll take him, now; don’t you bother any 
more. Oh, here we are: let’s leave him here for a bit. 
He’ll recover. He’s been in here before. Don’t worry, 
Peter, old boy. You’re all right now.” 

Then to William he said, “How about another 
drink?” 

“Certainly.” 

They went back to the bar. 

“My name is Maddison.” 

“Mine is Warbeck. I’m sorry I haven’t any money 


19 JULY, 1919 165 

to buy you a drink. Father sends me the doings on 
Tuesday." 

“The doings?" 

“My weekly remittance." 

“Oh, you don’t live down here?" 

“No, in town. Have you tried Dog’s Nose?" 

“You prefer that?" 

“Thank you," said Warbeck with grave courtesy, 
and bowing. 

The drink smelt and tasted like the flower of gera¬ 
nium. Warbeck explained that it was a favourite drink 
of stokers and Cornish miners. He drained his tankard 
at a draught, and was invited to have another, which 
he accepted immediately. 

“Do you know the Fairfaxes?" asked William sud¬ 
denly. 

Julian Warbeck stared at him, and said slowly, 

“Yes, I have the honour to know a lady of that name. 
Why?" 

Nervously they glanced at each other, and looked 
away. 

“I’ve got a spaniel to give them." 

“Well, I should give it to them." 

“But I don’t know their address?" 

Warbeck stared uneasily, frowning, and biting his 
nails. 

“I could get it at the post-office, I expect, but that’s 
closed." 

“Don’t you live here?" 

“I live in Devon." 

“Devon?" 

Warbeck frowned at him. Then he stroked his chin, 
lit a cigarette, and said in a voice that William had first 


166 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

heard on entering the room, “Have you recently shaved 
a beard?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re a painter fellow, aren’t you? And a cousin 
of Phillip Maddison?” 

“Yes, he’s my cousin.” 

“Have you seen him lately?” 

“No.” 

“He used to be Adjutant of one of the Rest Camps 
on the Leas, and got kicked out for never being there. 
Extraordinary! Why? do you ask? He was with Mrs. 
Fairfax all the time! Where is he now? God knows. 
Certainly I don’t and as I don’t go to church I suppose 
it will never be revealed to me. I want to know, be¬ 
cause he owes me five pounds. Lina met you in Devon, 
didn’t she?” 

“Yes.” 

“She told me you were a painter. Haven’t you 
noticed a resemblance to Romney’s Lady Hamilton?” 

He pointed to a calendar on the wall, advertising 
Dodder’s Disinfectant, and having in its centre a re¬ 
production of the famous portrait. The turned shoul¬ 
der, the rounded bosom, the lovely gentle feminine 
glance all recalled to William a memory of Eveline 
sitting on the headland sward, resting on one arm, 
waiting to talk to him when he had finished gazing 
across the Santon Burrows. 

“Sorry I can’t pay for a drink,” Warbeck was 
saying. 

“I’ll pay.” 

“Thank you,” he replied with courtesy. 

“Dog’s Nose?” 

“It is a good suggestion. And I say—I hate to ask 
you—but could you, er—until to-morrow, of course, 


19 JULY, 1919 167 

when the doings will arrive from father—could you 
lend me a pound ?” 

“I’ve only got a few shillings till I cash a cheque.” 

“You could cash one here. Only,” his voice lowered, 
“don’t say you are a friend of mine, because I owe them 
a few bob already. The measly manager will probably 
do it for you.” 

He saw the manager, who agreed to change a cheque 
for a pound, but no more. This was immediately bor¬ 
rowed by Julian, who went off to the billiard room in 
order to play snooker for penny-a-point. So William 
was relieved of his presence as well as of his pound, 
and went out, returning immediately when he remem¬ 
bered Peter White. He found him in a state of semi¬ 
consciousness, leaning against the wall of the lavatory, 
and, calling the manager, helped to carry him to his 
bedroom. They took off his shoes and tunic, and laid 
him on the bed; and, looking in a drawer to find a clean 
handkerchief to wipe Peter’s lips, he saw a photograph 
of Eveline, signed with the words From your Mignon. 


1 


CHAPTER II 
19 july, 1919 ( Continued ) 

After a solitary meal he walked up the High Street 
of Findlestone, which was crowded with merry people. 
Girls four and five abreast and arm-in-arm walked in 
the centre of the road; young men in mufti and uni¬ 
form did the same, surrounding the girls and kissing 
them. Tumbled hair and flushed cheeks and wild 
laughter and gay dresses seemed to wave and flutter in 
the merrymaking throng like the red and blue and 
green and black and yellow pennants and flags and 
ribbons waving and fluttering on strings stretching 
across the road from shopsign to shopsign. Old Archi¬ 
bald Dodder, passing William by Corvano’s Cafe 
Royal, offered him a five pound note for several rea¬ 
sons; one being that the old gentleman was inebriated; 
another being that his only son, a lieutenant-colonel 
of foot, wounded six times, had survived the war; an¬ 
other being that the young man looked, with the stains 
of sleeplessness on his face, as though he might be a 
starving out-of-work. He refused it, but entered the 
cafe for a drink with him, although he did not want 
it. The old gentleman was now wearing an ancient 
straw hat with the brim cut away except for a narrow 
peak in front, giving it a likeness to a jockey's cap, and 
his trousers were slit to the knees where the creases had 
been, so that they flapped as he walked, exposing his 
168 


19 JULY, 1919 169 

socks, parts of his pants, and a pair of suspenders. He 
slipped away from him as soon as was politely possible, 
since his host’s idea of generosity on this occasion was 
to render him inebriated by giving him a drink called a 
Snowball, which was a mixture of every kind of liqueur 
and spirit. 

He continued to saunter up the streets, wondering 
what he should do to find Eveline, while girls thrust 
ticklers into his face and boys squirted water at him 
from leaden tubes. A strange woman kissed him; an¬ 
other tried to pick his pocket ; he was pushed over play¬ 
fully by a one-armed civilian; a sucked orange was 
flung at him; bloodshot eyes leered and laughed near 
him; a saucy female asked if he wanted a girl, and re¬ 
plying in the same saucy manner he said that he would 
prefer a glass of beer. She attached herself to him, but 
finding him untalkative enquired if he had lost any¬ 
thing, so he replied that he was hoping to: instantly 
she slapped his face and lost herself in the murmuring 
throng. 

Then down the road, marching strictly to attention, 
came a band of urchins, barefooted and in rags. At 
the head of the column marched the commander, wear¬ 
ing the brown bowler that he recollected having seen 
on the head of Mr. Archibald Dodder. He wore a 
discarded officer’s tunic that reached between his 
knees and ankles. Behind this five-year-old marched 
the band, producing curious noises from tin whistles, 
cardboard tubes, a concertina, biscuit boxes for side- 
drums, a zinc bath of a bass drum, bones, and rattles. 
With heads erect the dozen ragamuffins marched, in 
the centre an infantine ensign with blackened face 
bearing draped colours—a shirt tied round the top of 
a decomposed umbrella. Their march past was an 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


170 

imitation of the morning’s procession. He flung a 
handful of coppers among them. Down went colours, 
drums, trumpets, fifes, swords; the rabble scrambled 
and scratched. Others copied the example of the 
benefactor, and soon hundreds of coins were flung. A 
little bareheaded girl ran forward to secure some, and 
was immediately pushed away by the commander. 
She stood in the road and cried, her arm up to her 
eyes. He knelt by her side, trying to convince her 
that she was not really hurt. 

“Quillie wants to play at soldiers,” complained the 
child. 

“But they’re so rough.” 

“Everybody’s dam rough to Quillie.” 

The child put a warm arm round his neck, laying 
her head against the cheek of the kneeling man, caress¬ 
ing him with locks soft and brown as the breastfeathers 
of a linnet. 

“Quillie’s runned away from Martha.” 

“Who’s Martha?” 

“Martha is Quillie’s maid, and at bedtime she is 
Quillie’s golliwog.” 

“And who is Quillie?” 

“Quillie’s me. Quillie doesn’t care a damn for any¬ 
body.” 

“Well, if Martha is looking for Quillie, we must 
look for Martha. She may be crying.” 

“Martha often cries. She’s gone to have one.” 

“Have one what?” 

“Have one, silly! Martha said to Quillie, ‘You 
wait here, lovey, while I have one, ’cause it’s Peace 
Day.’ Martha went into a shop. Quillie runned away. 
Let’s go to the Leas, and roll on the grass with the 
dogs, shall us? What’s your name?” 


19 JULY, 1919 


171 


“William.” 

“Quillie likes Willum.” 

“William likes Quillie.” 

The child moved her head so that her lips came to 
his mouth, giving a kiss. 

“Willum’s nice to kiss. Nicer’n Naps or Peter or 
Daddy,” she said. Her moist hand was wriggled into 
his, and she imperatively led him up the High Street, 
making two steps to his stride. Soon they turned up 
a quiet passage leading to the promenade; but the 
sight of a man in front made her cry, “There’s Jay 
Doubleu. Quillie hates Jay Doubleu. Take Quillie 
away, Willum.” 

She pointed at Julian Warbeck. Immediately he 
realized whose daughter she was, and a strange pain 
filled him, so that his voice was mute, and he could 
only stare at her. Flesh of her flesh, blood of her blood, 
spirit of her spirit: from the strange and lovely flower 
had loosened this petal. If only she were his, how he 
would guard and cherish her, how her purity would 
sweeten his life, a lamb guarding its shepherd. 

The girl was clutching his coat, and he saw that 
Warbeck had turned and was walking towards them. 
As he approached, William noticed that his eyes seemed 
more deeply sunk in a face more roughly flushed than 
before. When he stopped before them he frowned as 
though in an effort to concentration; he thrust forward 
his head, glared, and said in a thick voice: 

“So you have delivered the dog, have you? You 
haven’t been very long in re-establishing yourself.” 

“You’ve had too much Dog’s Nose, my dear chap.” 

“What?” glared Warbeck. “How dare you tell me 
that I’m drunk. Im not drunk! By god, it’s intoler¬ 
able, the insults and insolences that I have to listen to 


172 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


from people of tenth-rate intelligence. By god, Mad- 
dison, I'm not drunk." 

“Well, don't distress yourself, Warbeck. I merely 
suggested that you had taken too much Dog’s Nose." 

“I haven't, I tell you," insisted Warbeck, in piteous 
rageful distress, “I haven't had too much. I'm not — 
hicco—drunk. And even if I am drunk, that is no 
reason why I should have to tolerate your intolerable 
and insolent remarks. Where are you going with 
Quillie, ur?" 

William feared that at any moment he would leap 
forward and attack him. Warbeck's big face was full 
of rage: with nervous agitation he was flinging back 
the tawny hair from his brow. 

“We are going for a walk. If I were you, old chap, 
I'd have a rest for a bit. Have you had any lunch?" 

“Why do you ask me that? No, I haven’t had any 
lunch. And if I prefer not to have lunch, is that the 

concern of anyone but myself? I—I—oh, it's—I- 

hicco—•" 

The child wailed to be taken away, saying that she 
was afraid of Jay Doubleu. Hearing what she said, 
Warbeck frowned; then his face unpuckered and with 
a gesture of despair he turned away his face. It be¬ 
came creased again, like a poppy that has recently 
burst from its sheath. He saw that tears were running 
down his cheeks, and heard him sob, “She's afraid of 
me—that child of sunrise." A sudden sympathy made 
him go to the distressed youth and lay his hand on 
his shoulder. 

“Don't worry, I say, Julian." 

“How can I help it?" groaned the other, “in a 
world of miserable beasts, caring nothing for beauty, 
all doing their best to drive poets to madness! Bar- 


19 JULY, 1919 173 

barians, to whom beauty is nothing! I won’t let you 
have Jonquil. She’s run away from Martha. I’m 
going to take her back to Lina. By god, don’t you 
try and harm her! She’s the only lovely thing in 
Findlestone. Give her to me, you long insolent fool.” 

He rushed with whirling arms and lowered head at 
William, who feared that he had to deal with a man 
much stronger than himself. Jonquil shrieked, and 
William pulled her aside with him, while Warbeck 
struck the air and fell sprawling. His head bumped 
on the roadway, and he did not get up, but lay there 
sobbing. 

“Run, W-Willum, run,” urged the child. “Run to 
the Leas.” 

William felt acute pity for the distracted youth, 
but he walked away, and reaching the top of the 
street, glanced round and saw that he had got up and 
was leaning against the railing of a house, pressing 
his head with his hand. 

Before them was the sea, but the beach was hidden 
owing to the height of the sandstone cliffs on the Leas 
of which the Findlestone Town Council had, years 
ago, built the promenade. Residential houses and 
private hotels faced the Leas, with small gardens be¬ 
fore them, a pavement and roadway, then a number 
of grassy lawns bordered by low connected chains 
stretching from post to post, on which people were 
sitting, or endeavouring to sit, in spite of the efforts 
of children further down to jerk them off, Jonquil 
led William over a chain, and on to the grass. 

“Let’s pretend we’re gipsies,” she suggested; 
“Quillie will be the queen, eating b-bread and honey, 
and Jay Doubleu can be Bluebeard. Now you say, 
‘Sisterann, sisterann, do you see him c-coming?’ and 


174 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Ill say ‘Shootbangfire’ and kill him. Do you like Jay 
Doubleu, Willum?” 

“He’s very unhappy, my love. He seems to be 
tormented by something,” he said, despair in his own 
heart. 

“Quillie thinks he’s a dam swine.” 

“Hush, Quillie! No one’s a dam swine, really. You 
mustn’t speak like that.” 

“Is it naughty?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then Quillie will say it again. D-dam swine.” 

“Does Martha speak like that?” 

“No, but Mummie says Jay Doubleu’s a dam swine, 
so he is, mustn’t he?” 

“And what does Father say?” 

“Jay Doubleu doesn’t come any more now Father’s 
come home from the East. Father plays tennis.” 

“Without Mother?” 

“Erhum,” she nodded, “sometimes.” 

“Do you like father?” 

“Not so m-much as Martha or Mummie. Or you,” 
she added, rubbing herself against him. 

They were sitting in the sunshine on the cindrous 
grass. A band began to play in the bandstand a quar¬ 
ter of a mile to the right along the promenade. Thou¬ 
sands of people were passing and repassing on the 
asphalt walk of the Leas. Continually William’s 
glance searched the faces. 

“Don’t you want to play gipsies, Willum?” asked 
Jonquil wistfully. 

“Of course I do. If you promise not to say dam 
any more?” 

“All right. Then you be chief, and sit here before 
the fire. Now order me to go and get wood for a fire, 


19 JULY, 1919 175- 

speak r-rough to Quillie. You see, I were stolen by 
you, and you beat me, and swear and are always drunk, 
and you married me, but never loved me, but loved 
others instead. Tell me to go and get w-wood, and I 
cry.” 

She stood up, pretending to cry. 

“Go and get firewood,” he ordered gruffly, “and 
be quick about it. And snare a rabbit for my supper. 
And get mushrooms and wild apples. And if you 
dawdle, I shall tie you to the caravan wheel, flog 


“To a inch of 1-life?” 

“Exactly. Flog you to a inch of 1-life, rub salt 
into the wounds, leave you to the wolves, and a mouse 
will come and bring you berries to eat. Now go, and 
be quick!” 

With a delighted laugh Jonquil skipped away, and 
commenced her pleasant hardship. She returned 
shortly. 

“Quillie’s caught a nice bunny,” she said, laying a 
discarded cotton glove beside him, “and got some 
m-mussrooms.” Fragments of an apple core and 
shreds of a banana skin were laid beside the rabbit. 
“And the firewood,” which consisted of bits of paper, 
a bootlace and spent matches. 

“W-Willum?” 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t let’s play any more. Tell Quillie the story 
of a poor little stolen girl who was whipped and rubbed 
with salt and was brought berries by a mousie. Quillie 
loves W-Willum better’n Martha or anyone .” 

“Willum wishes that Quillie were his.” 

“Then steal Quillie!” she tempted. 

“For this afternoon?” 



176 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“For always.” 

“But what about Martha and Mummie?” 

“Quillie hates Mummie.” 

“But she said she loved Mummie.” 

“Only sometimes, when Mummie doesn't whip her, 
and rub salt into her wounds.” 

He thought, The Little Liar! then kissed her im¬ 
pulsively, and stroked the soft auburn hair. 

“Tell Quillie about the little girl.” 

“Her name was Swallow Brow.” 

“The little girl's?” 

“Yes, and she was pretty. One day she was play¬ 
ing on the sands with her dog-” 

“What was his name?” 

“His name was Tintack. He chased a bunny, and 
lost Swallow Brow, who was stolen by gipsies, one of 
the band of the Bloody Hand!” 

Jonquil shivered with enjoyed terror. 

“It was near a large lake. The little girl, Swallow 
Brow, was rowed in a boat to their secret island.” 

“What was that c-called?” 

“Heron's Plume Island.” 

“How lovely!” 

“On Heron's Plume Island the gipsies of the Bloody 
Hand made her build them a hut, which she did, 
making her terribly tired. She lay down to sleep, 
and in her sleep a swallow, also tired, perched on her 
head, and went to sleep.” 

“Why was he tired?” 

“He had flown thousands of miles from Africa.” 

“Why?” 

“Nobody knows.” 

“Not even W-Willum?” 


i ?7 


19 JULY, 1919 

“Not even m-me.” 

“Erhum.” 

“The gipsy saw them asleep. He kicked Swallow 
Brow, and made her cry. He caught the little 
swallow-•” 

“Oh, W-Willum!” 

“And he put it in a cage-” 

“It will escape, won’t it?” she pleaded. 

“If it doesn’t pine away and die.” 

“Quillie will open the cage,” she insisted, jumping 
up and down with joy. 

“Well, the little girl was beaten and kicked again. 
She was sent to get a bunny for supper and sticks. 
She brought them. In the cage the swallow was beat¬ 
ing its wings, and crying. Why, Quillie, what’s the 
matter?” Quillie was crying, too. 

“Not really crying,” she said. “Really very happy.” 

“Because, you know, the swallow won’t really die?” 

“Erhum,” she nodded. 

“The little girl made the supper. Then she went 
to sleep again. In her sleep another little girl called 
Quillie came to her, having floated there on the back 
of an owl.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you were on the back of an owl.” 

“I did ride there once, when I were 1-little, I 
’member.” 

“Perhaps that was the time. On the back of the 
owl Quillie was riding, and she had ten fairies with 
her. Five opened the cage, and out flew the swallow, 
singing sweetly. The other five were ordered by Quillie 
to lift up the little girl, and they did so. The owl flew 
back with her to her mummy. And, do you know, 



178 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Swallow Brow and the five fairies hid themselves in¬ 
side Quillie’s heart, and they are there now. And I 
believe the swallow must be in your eyes—they are so 
blue, you sweet baby girl.” 

He would tell her no more, although she begged and 
coaxed; so she went away, returning some moments 
later, and, finding him still unresponsive: 

“What’s the matter, Willum?” 

“I wish I were dead,” he muttered, with a child’s 
sudden abandon. 

“Quillie often feels like that. So do Martha. She 
says, ‘Lovey, I’m damwell fed up with being messed 
about. If it weren’t for you I’d clear off.’ ” 

The mimicry was done with such quaint gravity 
that William laughed, and his mood passed. 

“W-W-Willum!” 

“Ess, midear?” 

“Why do you speak like that?” 

“Oh, I’m copying someone I knew when I was your 
size. But what do you want?” 

“Quillie would like to chuck stones into the sea.” 

“Do you know the way down?” 

“Erhum.” 

“Come on, then.” 

Gaily they joined the crowd on the Leas, walking 
towards the bandstand. Jonquil led the way down 
a zigzagging cliff path, passing wild mallow plants 
and campion in bloom, and along a dark pathway 
through tall pines and firs that stayed all light except 
broken restless fragments of gold on the brown needles 
and cones. Lying in the shade were many couples, 
some sitting apart and talking, some reclining side 
by side in silence, some bound together by each other’s 
arms, motionless and quiet. A solitary terrier covered 


19 JULY, 1919 179 

with dust was digging a hole in the earth, yapping 
excitedly to itself, and pausing to get the rabbit of 
its imagination. 

The white margin of the sea was freckled with 
human beings. Upon the brown pebbles the waves of 
high tide broke and swirled, rushing forward and draw¬ 
ing back for a fresh leap with a crashing rattle of 
rolled stones. Along a track of matting laid from a 
pavilion male and female figures were passing, thin 
ones shivering as they crept along it in dripping bath¬ 
ing dresses, the fat ones smiling and satisfied. Men 
with straw hats on the backs of their heads, and dark 
coats open lolled on the shingle, idly throwing stones, 
or watching the most pleasant bathing girls. Several 
rowing boats packed with human beings were being 
lazily rowed about on the swell by boatmen for five 
shillings an hour; others were going a short way out 
to sea in motorboats, some to beseech the pilot to put 
back to dry land as soon as possible. Rival boatloads 
of longhaired weedy men in striped shirtsleeves and 
collars were having races, sometimes converging and 
bumping. Children with oiled-silk and mackintosh 
coverings on their lower garments were paddling in 
the spent waverush and mechanically filling tin pails 
with pebbles and dried seaweed in order to empty 
them, making as much noise as possible. Children of 
a mentality less immature ran with daring in the back¬ 
wash of a wave, imploring benign parents to witness 
their extraordinary daring and adventurous deeds. 
Adolescents, trousered and skirted, sat upon the groins 
and the piles shortly to be washed by a higher sea, 
those in trousers chucking seaweed at the girls, and 
the skirted ones cheeking the boys. 

Jonquil and William sat near a man asleep in the 


180 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

sun with a handkerchief spread over his face. Jonquil 
giggled at the thought of tickling his head with a gull’s 
feather, and he whispered to her that she must not 
be naughty. But Jonquil was determined to tickle the 
head of the sleeper, and crept on hands and knees 
towards him, holding the feather in her teeth as though 
it were a dagger. William leaned sideways and grabbed 
a foot; she squealed and tried to kick away the re¬ 
straining hand. Firmly he pulled her back to him, 
saying that he was a giant. This delighted her more 
than the idea of tickling a man’s head, and she asked 
to be told a story. 

“About Swallow Brow,” she insisted. 

He began a variation of the fable told on the Leas, 
but Jonquil insisted on hearing again the same story. 
So he told it to her, lowering his voice as two girls 
returning from the sea tiptoed past them. Jonquil’s 
face showed an excited distress when he described the 
placing of the swallow in the cage, and her eyes 
brimmed with tears. As he was concluding the happy 
fantasy by telling her that a dream swallow would live 
in her heart for so long as she was kind to other little 
children, he turned without any motive or desire, and 
looked behind. The two girls were sitting on the 
pebbles a few yards away. Both were about twenty 
years old; a fair girl holding a towel round her, and a 
girl wringing seawater from black hair that lay thickly 
on white shoulders and scarlet bathing dress. 

They had not seen him. Jonquil, with a gentle 
smile on her lips, was still thinking of her swallow. 
He did not want to be seen by the girls, and yet even 
as he contemplated going away a desire for companion¬ 
ship upbrimmed within him. He sat still, looking 


19 JULY, 1919 181 

seawards, ready to hear what they might say. Almost 
at once the clear voice of Elsie Norman said, 

“You are an awful ass not to wear a cap, Jo. Your 
hair will split at the ends. It’s your great asset, you 
know. Besides, it gets so coarse.” 

And the reply of the other, 

“Oh, it's a nuisance. I shall have it cut, I think.” 

“My dear, you would look horrid. And it would 
be unfair to yourself.” 

“Why? I’ve no cavalier to displease.” 

“But you never know your luck.” 

The dark girl did not answer. Jonquil jumped up 
from his side, and William heard the chafe of her 
feet on the pebbles. 

“Why, it's Quillie!” said the girl in the red bathing 
dress. 

“Who's that with her?” the voice of Elsie enquired. 
William knew that they were looking at him, and 
presently Elsie was speaking to the child, asking her 
where her mother was, and had she run away from 
Martha again. 

“Martha went to have one, so Quillie went and found 
Willum. And Willum says a swallow's in Quillie's 
heart. And Quillie’s been riding on an owl’s wings. 
Hasn't I, Willum?” 

He ignored them, pretending not to have heard. 

“Whatever does the child mean?” demanded Elsie, 
with bewilderment. 

“Why, look!!” said the dark girl, with subdued ex¬ 
citement, speaking rapidly. 

William imagined that she was pointing at him. 

“What do you mean, Jo? That man?” 

“Can't you see?” 


182 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Don’t speak so excitedly, my dear. He may be 
listening.” 

William felt that all three were now staring at his 
back. 

“Can you hear, Mr. Willie Maddison?” she called 
softly. 

He turned round. 

“It is Willie, Jo!” 

“Hullo, Elsie,” he said. 

“Whatever are you doing here, of all places?” 

“Oh, I came here.” 

“But your father said you were living on the coast 
near Barnstaple, learning to farm or something. You 
look just the same!” 

“So do you.” 

“You know Mary Ogilvie, don’t you, Willie?” 

He looked down at the girl in the wet scarlet bathing 
dress crouching by his feet. With her hand she brushed 
the long wet black hair from throat and shoulders, 
looking up at him, and tossing it behind her neck. Her 
mouth was slightly opened, and she smiled, so that he 
saw the tip of a red tongue and the white teeth. 

“Hullo, Mary. I met a friend of yours two or three 
days ago. And I’ve just remembered that I accepted 
an invitation for yesterday, and didn’t turn up. A 
little lady called Diana Shelley.” 

“Diana! Where?” 

“She was at Cryde Bay.” 

“I know it awfully well.” 

She smiled swiftly up at him, and began to wring 
her hair. Some drops of seawater fell on Jonquil, who 
cried out, 

“Damn you, Jo!” 

“0 Quillie!” said Mary. 


19 JULY, 1919 183 

“QuilUe doesn’t care a -” 

“0 Baby/’ said Mary, putting her arms around her; 
“you’ve said that to me before. Look at the butter¬ 
fly!” laying her cheek against the child’s. 

Jonquil clapped her hands, and pointed to the white 
butterfly that was drifting about over the heads of the 
holiday crowd. “Tell Quillie a story of a butterfly,” 
she pleaded. 

“You must ask Willie.” 

“W-Willum, tell Quiliie the story.” 

“Later on.” 

“No, now.” 

“I don’t know it yet.” 

“Why not?” 

“Go away from me,” said William with sudden irri¬ 
tation, pushing her. 

Jonquil pouted, and kicked him. 

“Naughty piccaninny!” said Mary. 

“Temper!” echoed Elsie. 

Jonquil opened her mouth and cried, struggling and 
kicking when Mary tried to comfort her. She struck 
her on the cheek, but Mary, wincing only a little, con¬ 
tinued to whisper that she must not be naughty. 

“Quillie will! Quillie will! Dam Jo! Quillie hates 
Jo, an W-Willum, an Martha—whip Quillie. She’s 
naughty—whip Quillie!” 

“What an awful temper,” said Elsie. “Spiteful little 
thing. / wouldn’t pander to her if I were you, Jo. 
You’re too soft-hearted. The child wants discipline. 
No wonder, with such a mother!” 

Jonquil lay on the pebbles, quiet now, abandoned 
to shaking sobs. Mary sat and watched her. Then 
she looked up into William’s face, and he saw that 
her eyes were big with tears. 


184 the dream of fair women 

“What do you mean, ‘with such a mother?’ ” asked 
William, coldly. 

The two girls looked at him. Jonquil had ceased 
her sobbing and was playing with two pebbles, and 
waving her feet in the air. She began to sing to them 
as though they were dolls. 

“Poor stones, nice stones, always by the waves, 
talking to the sea, so dry and hot. Poor stones, dear 
stones, Quillie puts you in her hand.” 

Elsie said slowly: “Her mother has recently re¬ 
turned from Cryde Bay. Did you meet her there?” 

He nodded, looking at Jonquil. 

Mary said, “Come on, Elsie, let’s get our things on.” 

They picked their way nimbly over the pebbles, and 
he squatted by Jonquil. She ignored him and went 
on singing to the stones. Mary Ogilvie was dressed 
first, and ran to them holding shoes, stockings, and 
towel in her hand. She sat down with the tiny form 
of the child between them. 

“Have you bathed to-day?” 

“Not yet, Mary.” 

“Isn’t it nice to see all these people so happy?” 

She began to dry a foot, bending her leg, so that her 
brown knee with the scar he remembered was ex¬ 
posed. A wild-eyed man passed them with a tray of 
bananas, oranges, sweets, chocolates and cheap maga¬ 
zines. “Would you like anything?” he asked Mary, 
who refused, thanking him with a quick glance. Jon¬ 
quil made no reply to him, so he bought her a four- 
penny orange and placed it by her. The man moved 
on, hoarsely muttering his wares. 

“Many years since I saw you last, Willie.” 

“It seems unreal, that last day, even now.” 

“Up by the Roman encampment?” 


19 JULY, 1919 


185 


“Yes.” 

“There’s a Roman encampment here, but it’s the 
centre of picnicking parties. Not solitary like that 
wild and lovely hill above Rookhurst.” 

Her feet were dry, and she began to pull on a stock¬ 
ing. He looked across the water, seeing small yachts 
and boats with rubied lugsails. A seaplane droned 
above, and from the head of the pier half a mile east¬ 
wards floated a brazen curl of music. 

“Don’t you think Diana Shelley beautiful?” Mary 
said, pulling the brown stocking over her knee, and 
swiftly fastening it under her skirt. 

“Very. But she seemed strange.” 

“Everyone says that. But it hides shyness and re¬ 
serve. She only lives for music. What did she say?” 

“Oh, not very much. She asked me to lunch, I 
forget where-” 

“Monks’ Orchard. It’s quite near our place.” 

“Yes, that was the name. But I forgot to go.” 

“She will be disappointed.” 

“I don’t think so. She only asked me because I 
admitted I knew you.” 

“Then I wasn’t quite forgotten! One field post¬ 
card in, let me see, nearly five years. You must be 
twenty-two. You were seventeen then. What an 
awful fool you must have thought me, talking to you 
as I did!” 

“I remembered it afterwards, and was grateful. 
War broke out five days after I arrived in London, 
and I joined the Yoemanry with Jack Temperley. He 
was killed in Gallipoli.” 

“My brother Michael was killed at the Hohenzollern 
Redoubt.” 

“He was in the Scots Guards, wasn’t he?" 



i86 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


She nodded, and in silence finished pulling on the 
other stocking. Then she asked, after a very small 
hesitation, if he was stopping at Findlestone for long. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. 

The seaplane passed with a humming roar just over 
the crowd, and hundreds of faces caused the beach to 
shift its freckled and variegated colour. Mary and 
William looked up at the same moment. 

“Are you staying with Major Fairfax?” 

“No. I just thought I would come to Findlestone.” 

He rose to meet Elsie, who looked very fresh and 
pretty in a linen dress, blue as her frank, friendly eyes. 
The sunlight burnished her hair, fairer now than when 
the thick plait had hidden the gold. She wore a be¬ 
trothal ring, he noticed. 

“Sorry to have kept you so long, my dears. How 
about some tea? Jonquil, are you going to be a nice 
little girl, and come home with us to have some cakes?” 

Jonquil, having buried the orange, was interested 
in a cork. 

“She’ll come,” said Mary. 

William and Elsie moved off, to be followed by Mary 
and an obedient child. They walked across the lower 
road, and up the path through the pines. 

“What do you think of Mrs. Fairfax, Willie?” 

“I thought her quite nice. A bit unconventional, 
perhaps.” 

“Yes, many people think that. Daddy used to 
paint her as a child, you know.” 

“Really?” 

“Her portrait was hung in one year’s Academy, 
and bought by Major Fairfax’s father. Funny coinci¬ 
dence, wasn’t it? For afterwards the son married the 
original. She was only sixteen, and he was more than 


19 JULY, 1919 187 

double her age. They married almost immediately— 
just before the outbreak of war. He had spent years 
in the Sudan. It’s too young, really, to be married at 
sixteen, for a girl cannot possibly know her own mind 
at that age. What do you think?” 

“No.” 

“Of course she cannot. It’s too young to expect a 
girl to settle down. Then came the war, and he went 
to fight, and she was left alone down here with her 
relatives. But I suppose you know old grandfather: 
Fairfax and the two aunts, don’t you?” 

“No.” 

“Well, I expect you will before long. You don’t look 
very fit, Willie, as you ought, living in Devon. You 
look quite dark under the eyes. Perhaps it’s the sun. 
You ought to wear a hat, you know. You had sun¬ 
stroke once when you were a boy, didn’t you?” 

“No, that was Jack.” 

“Of course. Poor old Jack! You and he were 
friends, weren’t you? Don’t you miss him?” 

“Yes,” he sighed. 

“Poor Willie!” Her tone of sympathy assuaged a 
little his inward despair. 

“How is your father, Willie?” she asked, as they 
walked up the path to the Leas. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him or heard from 
him since I left Eookhurst at the beginning of the 
year.” 

“What a pity you aren’t more to each other. But 
you never did get on very well, did you? Neither of 
you have had a proper chance. But he’s very proud 
of you, Willie. You should have heard him talking to 
daddy about you during the war.” 

“But I did nothing particular during the war.” 


i88 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“But you did. You won the Military Cross and the 
Croix de Guerre.” 

“Valueless. Ask the dead.” 
h “Morbid still! At any rate we are all proud of you 
at Rookhurst. Your name is hanging in the Church 
porch, on an illuminated scroll. Now, don’t go and do 
anything to spoil that decent record, will you? Take 
the advice of an old friend, Willie, and keep clear of 
any entanglement!” 

“Why should I be in any entanglement?” 

“No reason at all. I merely said mind you don’t. 
Daddy was saying only the other day that he was sure 
you had the brain and the personality to do consider¬ 
able things, if only you could find your feet. He said 
that just after you had left, when you and he had that 
long argument all the afternoon and evening. 'When 
Willie throws off the effects of the war he will go 
straight ahead.’ That’s what daddy said, and, you may 
be sure, he knows all right what he’s talking about! He 
said you hadn’t yet got the world quite in perspective. 
That’s why I thought I’d give you a friendly piece of 
advice, and warn you not to think too much about 
people who aren’t of any particular importance.” 

“Oh, I shan’t.” 

They reached the top of the Leas, which was less 
crowded owing to a general desire for tea and ices. 
Elsie and William were joined by Mary and Jonquil, 
who was now laughing happily. They turned down a 
side-street leading to the High Street, and were about 
to cross the roadway when a long low yellow car shot 
past, the driver cutting out the exhaust so that it 
seemed to be emitting roaring coughs. 

“Mummie!” shrieked Jonquil, but the car went past 
without Eveline seeing them. 


19 JULY, 1919 189 

She was sitting beside the driver, who was Lord 
Spreycombe. Behind sat the sailor called Tubby, and 
a small fair girl holding the bulldog by its spiked 
collar. They were laughing. William went with the 
two girls and Jonquil down the High Street, on the 
way to Elsie’s house. They saw the car pull up about 
two hundred yards away, outside a large corner shop 
with 

Wine and GEO. BOGSIDE Spirit Merchant. 

in gilt letters over the shuttered windows. The place 
was without bunting or flag or decoration of any 
description. 

Lord Spreycombe got out, followed by Eveline. She 
was dressed entirely in white, with a large white hat. 
Lord Spreycombe sought for something in the car, 
handing out several articles to Eveline, looking like 
small pails. She carried one towards the corner shop, 
and he followed with the two. William saw him bend 
down, lever off a lid, and rising again, he flung the 
contents of the tin over the shop front. This was 
repeated with the other tins. Great splashes of red, 
white and blue colours began to run down the shutters 
and the plaster front. Indifferent to the crowd of 
about a dozen spectators, Lord Spreycombe slung the 
empty tins of paint upward to a small roof, on which 
were several shrubs in tubs, above the shop where a 
gentleman was sitting with two ladies, apparently 
having tea. The gentleman happened to lean over 
just as the third can sailed upwards, so that it nearly 
struck him. 

“What do this mean, my lord?” he called in a 
high angry voice; “what do this mean? Outrageous 


190 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

behaviour for the son and hair of a peer o’ the realm. 
I shall have the law on you, my lord.” 

“What’s that you say, your washout? My dear chap, 
we’re helping to decorate the ancient and horrible 
town of Findlestone. We are responding nobly to 
your washout’s mayoral appeal to make the best dis¬ 
play on this suspicious occasion; and, noticing that 
your washout omitted to decorate his own establish¬ 
ment, we considered it our duty, after cracking several 
bottles, to do it for your washout. And all responsi¬ 
bility must be put upon the perfervid exhortation of 
your appeal. No, don’t wave your arm like that, or 
you will fall over. Your shop looks very nice indeed.” 

The onlookers gazed with admiration at the sight 
of Lord Spreycombe raising a grey bowler hat to his 
worship. The paints were slowly making their shape¬ 
less slides down the drab shopfront, while attenuated 
driblets in advance of the main columns gave the ap¬ 
pearance of string blinds hanging awry. When Wil¬ 
liam was only a few paces from the yellow car Jonquil 
ran forward and threw her arms around her mother’s 
skirts. Eveline with an exclamation of delight seized 
her under the arms and lifted her up, kissing repeatedly 
the small face. 

“Quillie, darling, mother has missed her baby 

girl-” William heard her say, and then they 

were looking at each other. Immediately Eveline set 
down the child, and with a radiant delight she rushed 
up to him. 

“Bill . . . ! Billy . . . !! You in Findlestone!!! 
My dear, but how perfectly splendid. Where are you 
staying? You must come home to tea and see Lionel. 
I’ve told him all about you, and we were thinking of 



i 9 i 


19 JULY, 1919 

motoring over to pay you a visit. How nice to see your 
old face again! Let me look at you, old man. . . . But 
how long have you been here? And why haven’t you 
been round to see me? And how did you come to 
know my little Jonquil?” She turned to the two 
friends, and with an extreme cordiality she greeted 
them. “What an extraordinary day of surprises and 
adventures! Do all you people know one another? 
Why, Bill, I had no idea that my friends were your 
friends! Elsie, have you known Willie Maddison for 
long?” 

“About twenty years.” 

“Good heavings! Mary, dear-” 

“Willum’s been telling Quillie lovely stories, mum- 
mie!” 

“I’m sure he has, darling, because he’s half a fairy 
himself. How rude; I am forgetting all about my other 
friends.” She turned to Lord Spreycombe, who was 
leaning on his elbow in an attitude of assumed tired¬ 
ness against the wind-screen. “Naps, you know Miss 
Norman and Miss Ogilvie, don’t you?” 

Naps became upright, and, talking off his hat, he 
swung one lank leg across the other and made a low 
sweeping bow. 

“The ladies and I are already acquaint!” 

“This is Captain Maddison.” 

“H’r’y’u?” he enquired, raising his black semi-circu¬ 
lar eyebrows, and holding out a limp hand. Eveline 
slapped it, telling him not to be sloppy. “He hasn’t 
grown up yet,” she said. “Miss Pamment speaking 
to the fair, slim girl in th$ car—“you know Miss Nor¬ 
man, don’t you? Of course! And Captain Maddison, 
otherwise Bill? Tubby, bow to the ladies—Lieutenant 


192 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Sir John Lorayne. The bulldog’s name is ’Oldfast, 
because he never has yet. Now you all know each 
other!” 

“Don’t forget Sir George Bogside, and the Misses 
Swamp! ” whispered Lord Spreycombe, pointing to the 
group on the roof of the shop, who had resumed their 
tea in attitudes of stiff oblivion of the outrage. 

“Naps, you impish creature!” said Eveline, and, 
smiling at the girl called Miss Pamment, “I must 
leave you before they put you in the lock-up. Good¬ 
bye, Miss Pamment! I shall see you at the hop to¬ 
night, shan’t I? Cherrio, Tubby; don’t forget to ask 
me for a dance, will you?” 

“Mummie, can Quillie come to the dance, too?” 

“No, my darling, little Quillie must go to bed, or she 
will lose the roses in her cheeks.” 

“Then can Wiilum take Quillie to the bonfire?” 

“For a little while, perhaps, if Quillie is good and 
will sleep after tea.” 

“Thanks awfully,” said Jonquil. 

“Isn’t she perfectly sweet, Bill?” 

He looked into her eyes, which surely shone with 
love for him. 

“Mummie, quick!” whispered the child. “Strewth, 
here comes some one I don’t want to see. Hide me, 
dear people. Stand in front of me, Naps. Too late!” 

Julian Warbeck approached. He strode quickly, in 
a straight line, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. 
His broad shoulders were hunched, and he was lost in 
some thought. When he saw the shopfront he stopped 
abruptly, scowled at the sight of the paints, and 
growled, “It is—hicco—pardon, raining at last, I per¬ 
ceive. Hiccoo—damn—how fine a rainbow!” He 
raised his hat solemnly to the doorhandle, spun round, 


19 JULY, 1919 193 

and glared at William, and said, “You—hicco—have 
my—hicco—my congratulations-•” 

“He’s drunk,” whispered Elsie Norman, and War- 
beck heard her. He thrust his head forward, frowned 
so that his eyes were nearly hidden, hiccoughed, mut¬ 
tered a contemptuous, “Oh, well,” rammed his hat 
on his head, and strode along his straight line, en¬ 
deavouring to demonstrate, it appeared, his ability to 
walk perfectly upright. He marched unswervingly 
across the road, halted, turned to the right in the 
middle, and looking fixedly ahead, disappeared in the 
direction of the Leas. 

“Following his Dog’s Nose,” murmured Lord S., but 
no other remark was made. 

When the yellow car was gone, Eveline asked Wil¬ 
liam to have tea with her, but he told her calmly that 
he had accepted already the invitation of Elsie Nor¬ 
man. Jonquil said that she had as well, but her mother 
decided that she must take the child home, which was 
done, with the child in tears. 



CHAPTER III 


19 July, 1919 ( Continued) 

Mr. and Mrs. Norman said that it was a delightful 
surprise to see him, and during tea asked him many 
questions. Charlie Cerr-Nore was there, and William 
imagined by his devotional manner to Elsie that they 
were engaged to be married. “Old Pigface,” the nick¬ 
name given Charlie at school, seemed less inclined to 
like William than when they were boys, but Mrs. 
Norman did most of the talking. The name of Eveline 
was not mentioned again after Elsie had told them 
of the meeting with Jonquil and William on the beach, 
and later, of the wineshop episode. Mrs. Norman said 
that she thought it was “very bad form.” 

After tea he was left with Mary, sitting on a seat 
under a mulberry tree at one corner of the tennis 
lawn. Upon impulse he asked her to go for a w r alk 
with him on the Leas, and seek Billjohn. The crowd 
was increasing, the cheeks of the girls were red and 
shining with exertion and laughter, their hair untidy, 
ticklers and paper whisks in their hand ready to be 
thrust into any and every youngish male face. The 
elder men strolled with relaxed expressions, carelessly 
happy, hands in pockets, caps pulled over ears, smok¬ 
ing. Children brushed into them, scrambled round 
them, heedless of anything except the games they were 
playing. By the side of him stepped Mary, speaking 


195 


19 JULY, 1919 

only when he spoke to her, wearing a panama hat and 
simple gown of tile-brown arabian silk with white 
collar. They walked past the bandstand, the middle 
of a vast pool of humanity, from which unaccountable 
concentric circles of deckchairs seemed to ripple with 
every kind of male and female face, dress and gesture. 
Many couples were dancing. The leader of the or¬ 
chestra, a mixed one in hungarian dragoon jackets and 
obsolete French infantry pantaloons, was ostensibly 
unsteady upon his legs. Some of the performers ap¬ 
peared to be playing one tune, some to be playing an¬ 
other. They were in various conditions of inoffensive 
alcoholism. William and Mary stood and listened for 
a time, then continued their walk to the less frequented 
part of the Leas. Before them spread a wide and 
smooth expanse of grass, extending on the right till 
it reached a fence of red corrugated iron about eight 
feet high enclosing for some hundreds of yards many 
blocks of residential buildings, on the chimney pots 
of which rooks were perching. The houses had a drab 
and dreary appearance. She explained to him that the 
enclosure was the now evacuated Rest Camp of which 
his cousin had been adjutant. 

He walked on in silence while the din made by the 
band faded away behind them. The sun which all 
day long had seemed to be ripping a fierce silver furrow 
in the blue sky now appeared to have spent its rush 
in a gold fog which threw long shadows behind them. 
When they had passed the Rest Camp they came to 
an empty bandstand round which a few old people 
were quietly sitting. He noticed an ancient man in a 
bathchair with a sheepskin wrapped round his knees. 
At his feet was curled a fat cat with an enormous head. 
Near the old gentleman were sitting two elderly ladies, 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


196 

both of them knitting, and one of them talking to a 
man wearing white flannels and idly spinning two 
tennis racquets as he sat on a reversed chair. William 
observed the large brown hands and the ease with 
which the strong fingers twirled topwise the racquets. 
He glanced at the approaching pair with blue eyes of 
an unusual lightness which was the more pronounced 
by the projection of the high cheekbones in a face sun¬ 
burned and lean. He wore no hat; the fair hair was 
short and upright, with bald patches receding on each 
side of the temple. His nose was thick at the bridge, 
as though it had been broken, and had reset irregularly. 
Mary whispered swiftly that he was Major Fairfax, 
and immediately afterwards the man was on his feet 
and greeting her. 

"Hullo, Mary! What have you been doing with 
yourself all day? Seen Lina?” 

"We met her just before tea, Major. How d’you 
do, Mrs. Beayne—Miss Fairfax—Mr. Fairfax. Is your 
cold better?” 

She spoke to the old man, after bowing to the elderly 
ladies. 

"Worse. Worse,” grumbled Mr. Fairfax. "This 
sea breeze is very damp. You’ll catch a cold in that 
thin dress. What’s that man’s name?” 

He pointed at William with a bony finger, and peered 
at him under eyebrows tangled and ragged and white. 
A black clerical hat with floppy brim was pulled down 
over his ears; a woolen muffler, after being wound 
several times round his neck, crossed the chest of his 
greatcoat and was tucked under his arms. 

"What’s that man’s name?” he enquired again in a 
throaty voice. "Who is he? Where does he come 
from? Here, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy: don’t go 


19 JULY, 1919 197 

away, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Milly, why don't 
you catch Tommy? Mind that dog over there—they'll 
fight, I know they'll fight!" 

The old gentleman’s irritated concern had been 
caused by the cat getting up, arching its back, yawning 
and jumping from the bathchair. 

“That isn't a dog, my poor parent," said Mrs. 
Beayne compassionately. “That’s a piece of news¬ 
paper." 

“But you can't be too careful, my girl. A dog may 
be asleep under the paper. Here, Tommy, Tommy, 
Tommy: don't run away, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy." 

He patted his knee under the sheepskin, but the cat 
ignored him, and squatting on its off hind leg com¬ 
menced to scratch with its near hind. Having loosened 
the parasitic cause of itching, it shook it from its own 
skin so that it fell on to the sheepskin, unnoticed. 
Then it strolled away in order to fascinate some spar¬ 
rows who were hopping round the bandstand. The 
old man's eye followed it proudly. 

“Exercise is good for Tommy," he mumbled. 

His daughter was smiling at William, and Major 
Fairfax was looking amused. Mary said, with quick 
shyness, 

“Mrs. Beayne, Miss Fairfax—this is Willie, I mean 
Captain Maddison." 

Miss Fairfax made a conventional murmur, and Mrs. 
Beayne, a tall woman wearing tortoiseshell spectacles, 
with a face still beautiful, addressed him in a deep, 
broken-musical voice. 

“How do you do? Now, tell me, do, are you any 
relation to that poor little man, Phillip Maddison?" 

“Oh, yes, are you?" asked her unmarried sister. 

“He is my cousin." 


198 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Fancy that!” exclaimed Miss Fairfax, taking off 
her spectacles. “Now, really, I do see some resem¬ 
blance. Now, tell us, Captain Maddison, where is 
Phillip? Do you know, he was a constant visitor to 
the house, and he never came to say good-bye! We 
are so hurt, aren’t we, Margery?” appealing to her 
sister. 

“Oh, very hurt. Your poor heart was quite broken, 
Milly. As for dear Eveline, she was inconsolable.” 

During the pause Mary introduced William to Major 
Fairfax, and the two men shook hands. 

“My wife has told me about you, Maddison, and 
about your Devon seascapes. I suppose you’ve been 
to the house and seen her? When did you arrive?” 

“Oh, I haven’t seen the house yet—but I’ve been 
to her—I mean, I haven’t been to the house, but I’ve 
seen her,” stammered William. “I saw her in the town 
with Jonquil. You see, I only arrived this morning.” 

“But what about all your birds and animals? Did 
they arrive this morning?” asked Mrs. Beayne. 

“No, they’ve all gone away and left me. I brought 
one spaniel with me, but I lost him this morning.” 

“Oh, the poo-oor little man!” said Mrs. Beayne, 
“how wery, wer-ry sad!” Her voice assumed a nasal, 
moaning tone that was produced from the back of the 
nose, with long drawn compassion, “what a werry 
sad holiday for the poo-oor bow-wow! Where was the 
little man lost, and does he know master’s address?” 

“His name is Billjohn, and I lost him in the High 
Street.” 

“But you must go to the Police Station.” 

“I daren’t.” 

“Ho, ho,” said Mrs. Beayne. “It’s as bad as that, is 
it? Bashing constables?” 


199 


19 JULY, 1919 

He recounted his drive in the cab, and they all 
laughed except the old gentleman, who was too intent 
on watching his cat. Major Fairfax did not refer 
again to the meeting of his wife with William in 
Devon, and he felt less apprehensive. Constantly he 
looked at the face of Eveline's husband; he was en¬ 
tirely different from the mind’s picture he had formed. 

“He was a brigadier-general under Allenby in Pales¬ 
tine,” Mary told him when they had left them, “and 
sometimes Eveline still talks of him to strangers as 
'my husband, the general.’ He’s an awfully decent 
man, but I do wish-” 

She would not complete what she was going to say, 
although he asked her twice. They walked towards 
the gold-dewy sunfall which was charging the mists 
over the sea. William walked with downward glance 
caring nothing for the beauty that gave such joy to 
Mary. Past the big red brick Grand Hotel with its 
shining glass conservatory they walked, past its rival 
the Majestic Hotel, now atrophied since it was still 
commandeered by the War Office, although it had been 
empty of members of the Women’s Auxiliary Army 
Corps for several months. They came to open fields, 
where a great mass of timber was piled for the bonfire 
that night. They turned southwards to the sea, and 
sat on the edge of the cliff ragged with coarse grasses, 
poppies, and blue devilsbit scabious. Tussocks of thyme 
grew down the sandstone slope, murmurous with wild 
bees singing on the purple flowerlets. A kestrel hawk 
was hovering in the field behind them. Mary looked 
eagerly towards the golden luminousness of the hori¬ 
zon, as though wishful of absorbing the life in the 
light, of drinking the wind. Once she looked at her 
companion, in wonderment at his heedless attitude, 


200 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

at his dejection. To her came the same distress that 
she had felt as a very small child when at a tea-party 
she had seen him forlorn and miserable, and which 
in after years she had felt when sitting with him beside 
the tumulus on the downs above Rookhurst. She 
wanted firmly to tilt his head, and to turn it with her 
hands towards the western glory, so that it should 
enter into him and make him happy. 

“Mary.” 

“Yes, Willie.” 

“Do you know if it is to be a fancy dress at the Grand 
Hotel to-night?” 

“It’s optional, I think.” 

“Would you like to come?” 

“I'm going with my aunt.” 

He turned away as he spoke, and she wondered why 
he had asked her. She was going to thank him for 
inviting her when a brown fieldmouse climbed up the 
rough stem of a wild mallow growing just below them 
on the slope, and commenced to nibble the flower. 
The creature faced them, unafraid, because they made 
no movement. On seeing it William lost his apathy. 

“Look at that mouse,” he whispered. 

“I've seen it.” 

“Don’t move.” 

The mouse squatted among the veined purple 
flowers of the mallow, nibbling the hearts of the blos¬ 
soms. With small paws it pulled off the petals, work¬ 
ing with quiet earnestness. A bumblebee burred to the 
plant, and it leapt up and snapped at it, and having 
missed with its sharp teeth, continued to tear away the 
reproductive organs of the plant. The labours ceased 
abruptly, and the mouse froze all movement. Looking 
slowly upward, they saw that the kestrel had espied 


201 


19 JULY, 1919 

the mouse, and was resting on the breeze about ten 
yards above the edge of the cliff, its barred tail and 
wings spread, and head pointing downwards. The 
filaments of wing and tail feathers were nearly trans¬ 
parent, and red as though pulsing with blood; the 
light seemed to have fired the bird, and every feather- 
let ruffled by the wind was like a flicker of flame 
against the blue sky. 

The mouse never moved; one paw was upraised. 
Down slid the kestrel, beating wings and depressing 
the fan of its tail until it was balanced once more on 
the moving air, leaning forward on the wind and re¬ 
sisting its uptread in the wing pockets. 

He felt Mary’s hand clutch his knee. She was in 
an agony for the mouse’s danger. The black eyes of 
the blossom-spoiler were fixed in unwinking terror. 
If it made the slightest movement, the hawk would 
descend. Flinging up his arms, he shouted; Mary’s 
cheek was struck violently; the hawk swerved and 
swooped away; the mouse leapt from his leafy plat¬ 
form and was lost in the grassy runs below. 

“Mary, I’m so sorry. What a brute I am! Do 
forgive me!” 

He had hurt her, for there was the mark of his blow 
slowly raising a stain on her cheek, yet she made no 
sign that she was hurt. She would not look at him, 
so remorsefully he put his hand on her shoulder. She 
stiffened, but relaxed, and smilingly turned to him. 
He saw the tears in her eyes. 

“I am glad it escaped,” she said. 

Gently the dying wind tossed the ragged grasses, 
shaking the poppies, and waving the heads of the 
scabious. She sat very still and upright; the hand 
was removed from her shoulders. He spoke no more,* 1 


202 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


the humming of the bees at the thyme came to them. 
Soon they rose, and climbed down to the sea. 

As the sun fell lower the golden fume became thicker, 
and the sea-breeze wavered. Mary wanted to talk 
about birds, but his apathy seemed to have returned, 
and with it the curious distress to herself. 

The dance was not mentioned again, even when 
they passed by the Grand Hotel on their return and 
he stopped to read the notice boards leaning against 
the door. On the pavement as they walked past the 
Leas houses the heels of Mary went clippety clop, clip- 
pety clop, and realizing that he was noticing it, a hot 
colour flushed her cheeks, and she quickly explained 
that the noise was due to the iron tips on her heels. 

“They wear out so quickly,” she said. 

When they returned to the Normans’ house Elsie 
noticed the red mark on Mary’s left cheek and asked 
her how it had happened. He told her, with additions 
by Mary, of the mouse and the hawk, and Elsie seemed 
to be amused by the excitement of Mary as she de¬ 
scribed the saving of it. 

“You and your old mouse,” she said with good- 
natured tolerance. “You’re just like Willie.” 

“Funny old Elsie!” said Mary, a sweet luminousness 
in her face, which the other girl impulsively kissed. 
“I must run away now, or I shall be late.” 

“I’ll come with you,” suggested William, eager to 
leave the house. 

“Thanks, but don’t bother,” replied Mary, and, 
with a winsome look, she was gone. 

“She’s a funny kid,” said Elsie to Charlie, as the 
door banged. 


CHAPTER IV 


19 july, 1919 ( Continued) 

He left the Normans as soon after supper as he could, 
and wandered with the crowd towards the fields be¬ 
yond the asphalted Leas. He searched every face, 
but found not the one he looked for. He had a desire 
to drink, in order to drive out pain that became sav¬ 
agely inflamed in the dark, and went back to the 
town. But the bars were crowded by shouting soldiers, 
sailors and civilians; and after waiting for ten minutes, 
and seeing a fight between a drunken American ser¬ 
geant boasting about the war and a drunken civilian 
wearing the silver badge of disablement, which ended 
in the American being scragged by half a dozen 
drunken British soldiers, he went into the High Street, 
lit by electric arc-lamps that above the heads of the 
people were spluttering and shooting out the stark and 
coppery lights. He meandered down several streets, 
coming eventually to the railway bridge, and passing 
onwards, he reached a wfide Roman roadway that led 
through a plain to where were grouped acres of empty 
Canadian hutments. The way led to the downs, now 
dimly dark against the northern summer sky. Some¬ 
times he stopped, harkening to the faint roar that rose 
with the glow of Findlestone’s rejoicing, and was 
passing, ghostly, across the lightless huts. Onwards 
again, with Capella glimmering just above the hill 
203 


204 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

line, as though it were a lantern held for his guidance 
by some wandering shepherd. Over a fence at the 
foot of Csesar’s Camp, a blundering through brambles 
and past flints rolled ages since from the summit, a 
laboured climb up the steep sides, until Capella was 
hidden behind the ramparts, leaving him with the 
Lion and the Bear, the Dragon and the Swan. Rests 
in the coarse grasses, then upwards until the summit 
was reached. He stood on the rampart seeing the 
promenade lamps like a snake glittering every scale. 
Beyond, suspended in blackness, a battle cruiser sud¬ 
denly became studded with yellow, as all her lights 
were switched on at every porthole. A white beam 
stretched out from among them, illuminating the pier, 
trailing over the houses, and swelling to a dazzling 
whiteness as it moved up Caesar’s Camp, causing a 
drove of feeding cattle to stampede in terror. The 
light-swelling, burst in blinding rays upon him, and 
he put his hands to his face; the dazzle swung away 
again, and seemed to be feeding the sky. 

Some minutes afterwards the red-whiteness cleared 
from his sight, and he walked in darkness round the 
fosse. Unceasing in the long dry grasses the wind made 
its myriad lispings, rising and falling like the sighs 
of a lost generation come from the battlefields of 
Europe. The starlight made it possible to walk 
swiftly on the chalky down. Larks roosting in the 
tufts sprang up with frightened chirrups at his passing, 
and fluttered away in the dark to seek other crouching 
places. He remained with the field crickets and the 
stars while the rockets streaked upwards from the 
Leas, breaking at the pause of their curves into red 
and green showers. Very lights, no longer needed by 
the detrenched army, soared with them, descending 


19 JULY, 1919 205 

in wavy pools of radiance and drooping like faded 
water lilies. Then at different points great serpent 
tongues of flame darted at the sky: the beacons were 
kindled. Horned owls screaked in the night wind as 
they hunted the vols and mice on these hills of the 
dead, where under the grassy mounds the bones of 
pagan men were buried; owls that made now, as then, 
the same cries as they dropped to clutch and crush 
the furred bodies. In reverie he fancied that some 
skinclad man had sat and dreamed here, long ages 
before the Romans threw up their earthworks; even 
now, some hillflower might be drawing colour and life 
from his calcined bones. Perhaps a Roman had mused 
here under the stars, pining for the olive groves and 
fireflies of the south, while the watchfires winked on 
the shore, and the galleys rode at anchor in the bay; 
helmet—breast-plate—short sword—the trieme he 
may have borne—his bones: all: all were dust. And 
here may have climbed some Canadian lad, uncom¬ 
forted in the night, sick for the wheat plains of his 
western home, for the lakes and mountains, and the 
orchards on the slopes above the Pacific—far from this 
northern sea, so cruel to those that served it, its waves 
shot-over and splinter-lashed, mournful with crying 
gull; guarding on its bed cracked submarine and rended 
battleship, skulls weed-grown in the breach of guns 
rusting in the deep green water. Ancient Briton and 
alien Roman, Saxon and Norman, Colonial and Eng¬ 
lishman, all had breathed the salt winds of the hills, 
and pondered the star-meaning at night: were they of 
Something that strayed, and lingered awhile, and 
found itself again? 

The solitary human on the hill sat with reverie, 
watching the flames below licking the night. A broken 


206 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


pale circle surrounded the fires—these were the faces 
of the people who were rejoicing at war’s end. His 
restless spirit urged him to descend the hill and to 
seek one face in the thousand, but he remained, for 
here the night was quiet and kind, like the patient and 
faithful death that found after earthly linger the 
weariest travelling morsel. 

Later, pacing tranquilly the ambit, he found a dump 
of stakes and hurdles, left by a company of military 
engineers. Till he was fatigued by the carrying he 
bore many backloads to the earthwork, dropping them 
near a flagpost which marked the highest point. He 
sought some dried furze, and set light to the beacon. 
At once the wind carried the golden flame-rush from 
spike to spike, with hissing crackle and floating spark. 
The pinewood stakes soon fired up; he brought more 
hurdles, heaving them on, then sat' down and smoked. 

He sat by the fire, celebrating Peace Night on the 
hills of the dead, alone with the field crickets that sang 
to the heat, a straying moth, and the timid steers snuff¬ 
ling and peering at the edge of the fireglow. Embers 
were blown bright by the wind and then wasted. On 
the Leas the bonfires were still brightly burning; at 
intervals up and down the coast dull white blotches 
spread in the sky. These were the naval flares, each 
a million candle-power, which once had burned the 
night long on the Calais Dover boom. Wherever he 
looked inland the dark earth in a hundred places was 
speckled with fire. The nearest beacon was three 
miles away, but he could see the curl and twist of the 
wild flames breaking skywards. Northwards, east¬ 
wards, westwards, whithersoever he looked, the bea¬ 
cons were burning—tokens of joy at England’s ended 
darkness. He pitched the unburnt ends on his own 


207 


19 JULY, 1919 

fire, which flamed immediately, and sudden emotion 
choked his throat and sight: he felt that the spirits of 
dead warriors were with him. Sheep and cattle shuffled 
in the darkness beyond the fire, and from the grass 
came a million sighs that stirred the flames, and passed 
into darkness again. 


CHAPTER V 


19 july, 1919 ( Continued ) 

Some time later he arrived at the big bonfire in a 
field adjoining the grounds of the Grand Hotel. Some 
of the spectators were lying on the grass in attitudes of 
abandonment. Only a few small boys braved the heat 
of the ruddy mass and dared to venture within a fifty- 
foot radius. Several young civilians and soldiers, over¬ 
come by heat and drink, were asprawl on the ground. 

He saw the big face of Julian Warbeck in the crowd, 
and, going near, discovered that he was talking to a 
lank individual of about fifty years of age, wearing a 
monocle, and a very small cap that looked like a school¬ 
boy’s. Even Warbeck’s face was welcome in that lonely 
crowd, and William stood behind them, waiting for an 
opportunity to speak. Warbeck was saying, in his 
gruff voice: 

“Well, Mr. Dodder, well, I care nothing for what 
you say. I think—yes, I think—that for you, without 
erudition or intuition, to pronounce an opinion on 
Swinburne—on anyone ”—he spoke with anger—“I 
think, by god, yes, I think that it is an insolence that 
is intolerable.” 

“I merely remarked that Swinburne, in youth never 
seemed to have innocently enjoyed himself. Further¬ 
more, my young friend, I was reading the poet before 
you were bom.” 


208 


19 JULY, 1919 209 

“And don’t you think he is with Shakespeare?” 

“I do not.” 

“Oh, well. Urn.” 

“Now, don’t let us quarrel. Won’t you just come to 
my house—it’s only a step away—and have a friendly 
little cup of coffee?”’ 

“Have you no barley water?” enquired Warbeck sar¬ 
castically. “I am afraid that coffee would fly to my 
head, and then I should be so brilliant that I would 
put the fire out. But, seriously—coffee!!” 

“Well, perhaps, as it is Peace Night, I might find a 
glass of oporto.” 

“An excellent disinfectant against melancholy, sir!” 

The elder man laughed, or rather from his lips 
stretched back from his yellow teeth came a series of 
sounds like tee-hee. 

“That, my young friend, I think is the wittiest 
thing I’ve heard you say to-night.” 

“It was a third-rate remark,” said Warbeck con¬ 
temptuously. 

They moved away and William watched their de¬ 
parture. Mr. Everard Dodder, a younger brother of 
Mr. Archibald Dodder, was a cadaverous man dressed 
in a black norfolk coat, with schoolboyish knickers, 
stockings, and white spats. He carried a little stick as 
though he were a lady and the stick were a hair found 
in a plate of soup. As he walked he lifted high his 
feet. 

They passed round a segment of the fiery circle, and 
Warbeck left his sticklike companion, to stride rapidly 
towards a group of people who had just moved into 
view. The leader was a lady whose face shown whitely 
in the ruddy light which plied its rays upon the ermine 
cloak she held wrapped about herself. Two men 


210 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


strolled immediately behind her, one in a dinner jacket, 
hatless, and hands in pockets; the other a figure that 
brought from the onlookers a startled murmur of ad¬ 
miration. The figure of a man, sooty black, his face 
obscured by a mask, in trunk hose, doublet and cape; 
carrying on shoulder an executioner’s axe with crim¬ 
son haft and polished head that gleamed bloody with 
the play of firelight. To the lady Warbeck raised his 
hat, bowing low, and began to speak. She seemed 
amused by what he said, for she lightly struck him with 
the browm fan she carried. After a short pause William 
went to her, behind Mr. Everard Dodder, who with 
his slight stoop, round shoulders, and hands behind 
his back, appeared to be searching the ground for 
something lost. 

“Ha, ha,” said Mr. Everard Dodder. “I’m so glad 
you’re so innocently enjoying yourselves, what?” 

Eveline darted past him, and whispered to William, 
while giving his wrist a quick squeeze. “Dear one, 
where have you been?” 

The soft voice, and the agony of caress in it, made 
him incapable of speech; the beautiful face, with the 
eyes so tender, filled him with despair. 

“Billy, come into the dance. I’ll get rid of Naps and 
Lionel. Lionel’s the one in a dinner jacket. Remember 
you’re supposed to be a painter. Now, come, darling 
boy.” Aloud she said, “Rot; of course you can come. 
Fancy mooning about all alone! Lionel, this infant’s 
lost. He’s coming in to dance.” 

“H’llo, Maddison,” said Major Fairfax. “Alone? 
My dear chap! Where are your pals?” 

“I haven’t any, sir.” 

“What about us, m’dear old chap. Come into the 
dance. Everything merry and bright.” 


211 


19 JULY, 1919 

“But I can’t come in these things,” he exclaimed, 
looking at his clothes. 

“You can come as an oddmedodd, my dear William 
—you’re absolutely the part!” said Eveline. 

“Come and crack a bottle of bubbly, Maddison. The 
place is absolutely flowing with it.” 

“That seems to indicate that the Old Country is 
all right at last, sir,” said Warbeck, rubbing his hands 
together. 

“I’m so glad they’re so innocently enjoying them¬ 
selves, what, Lord Spreycombe?” approved Mr. Eve- 
rard Dodder, smoothly, looking sideways at him 
through the monocle. 

“I’m so glad you’re so glad,” retorted Lord Sprey¬ 
combe, swinging his executioner’s axe. “Coming in, 
Major? The plebs begin to gape. Mrs. Fairfax?” He 
offered his arm, and they walked away through the 
people, who respectfully made way for them. Major 
Fairfax and William followed. 

By the entrance of the hotel Eveline twirled round, 
snapping her fingers, cried Voila! gave her husband a 
ravishing smile, and said to William, “Bill, I quite for¬ 
got! I’ve found, what do you think?” 

“A grocer that doesn’t sell bad bacon?” he said, try¬ 
ing to be lively. 

“Be serious. I found what you’ve lost.” 

“Not Bifljohn?” 

“Yes!” 

“Where is he?” 

“At home. My dear, he came up to me soon after 
I left you this afternoon, wagging his little stern, and 
awful glad to see me. Aunt Margie—you’ve met her, 
haven’t you?—has lost her heart to him. Now, bant I 
a prayer maid tew vind un, midear?” 


212 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


During this rapid talk Lord S. had sauntered into the 
hotel. Major Fairfax looked at her with an admiring 
pleasure, as she bent forward from the step above 
them, holding her cloak around her knees with her left 
hand, her bright glance passing from William to her 
husband, and back again. 

“I'm awfully glad about Billjohn,” said William. 
“Would you like him?” 

“Rather!” 

“You can have him.” 

“But you must want him for yourself. I'll tell you! 
You walk him out for me: remember, you may want 
to give him away to someone else shortly!” 

They entered the lounge of the hotel, on the sofas of 
which men and women were sitting, all talking, most 
of them smoking cigarettes, many of them laughing 
without restraint. A few men in evening clothes, some 
with ties loose and hair dishevelled, and others in fancy 
dress, stood in groups, holding glasses in their hands, 
and talking loudly to girls and women, also holding 
glasses or eating ices. A dance had just finished. 
Major Fairfax said that William must be thirsty, and 
led the way to a room. 

“Help yourself, Maddison,” he said, handing him a 
plate of sandwiches and a glass of champagne, “have 
some wine. Beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
what? Nothing like it. By jove, it’s a blessed change 
from everlasting whiskey. Ever been out East?” 

“Only during the war, sir. Gallipoli, and afterwards, 
France.” 

“Wonderful show, Gallipoli! Read Masefield’s book? 
Unforgettable, like the landing at Suvla. Lost most of 
my pals there—stout fellows, b'god. Have some more 


19 JULY, 1919 213 

wine! Merry crowd here, aren’t they? War forgotten. 
Wish I could fforget. Yet I don’t think I want to. 
Which way did Spreycombe go? Oh, here he is, with 
Lina. Shall I pour you another glass, m’dear?” he 
asked her, in a friendly and courteous voice. 

“I am still about seven off that capacity you warned 
me to observe.” 

“How about you, Spreycombe? Back teeth sub¬ 
merged yet?” 

“Lud, no,” drawled the executioner, raising his mask, 
and showing the slanting eyes. “Thanks v’y much. 
D’luck!” drinking to him. 

William was proud to be seen in Eveline’s company. 
He noticed that women standing or sitting near ap¬ 
peared to be appraising her; and the glances of some 
were coldly critical. He knew as they spoke to their 
companions that they were discussing her. She seemed 
to be unaware of other women’s notice as she stood so 
naturally and easily with the frosty wineglass in her 
hand, her small brown shoes close together. The crown 
of her head was adorned with vine-leaves of autumnal 
tone, and her auburn hair was unbound and falling 
down her back and over her right shoulder. She wore 
a sleeveless, faded garment of Rose du Barri, which 
was tom from the supporting left shoulder-strap, so 
that the front fell diagonally across her bosom and the 
white bodice was seen. Her waist was girdled by a 
narrow brown sash after the original of her attire, 
which was one of Romney’s portraits of Emma Hamil¬ 
ton as a Bacchante. 

“Billy, take your eyes off me. Haven’t you seen my 
neck and shoulders before?” she whispered by his side, 
as she offered him a plate of Gentleman’s Relish sand- 


214 THE DREAM of fair women 

wiches. “Go on, eat all you can. It’s lovely to see you 
so happy. Do you like my fancy dress? But wait till 
you see Mary Ogilvie in her tartan!” 

“I don’t want to see anyone but you.” 

“You mustn’t talk like that! Have some more wine. 
Don’t you think Naps looks perfectly bloody with his 
skinny legs? I’m a bit tight, Billy. I want to kiss 
you! I do! Billy, his sister is here, but she won’t 
know me, but I’m not worrying. Her ladyship’s rigged 
out as Queen Elizabeth. Billy, I feel absolutely tight. 
Do I look it? Ask me for a dance, won’t you?” 

“All of them!” 

“Good evening, Mrs. Fairfax,” said a quiet voice near 
them. It was the fair girl who had been sitting in the 
car that afternoon. Sir John Lorayne was with her, in 
the uniform of an admiral of the Royal Navy a hun¬ 
dred years ago, a patch over one eye, a telescope under 
an arm. 

“My dear Horatio!” exclaimed Eveline, “from what 
shades have you come to meet your old love?” 

“Oh, I’ve been having a quick one round at the bar. 
Emma,” replied Lord Nelson. 

“He insists on dancing with you, Mrs. Fairfax,” said 
Miss Pamment, “so I brought him along.” 

“May I have the honour? I’ve lost my dance-pro¬ 
gramme.” 

“You may. I’ve lost mine, too—my programme, I 
mean, not my honour. I’ve still got that, my lord. I 
can give you the next, if you like. Don’t you think Bill 
is absolutely topping as an oddmedodd?” 

Sir John Lorayne and Miss Pamment exchanged 
glances. Something gave a wild yell in the distance; it 
was the leader of the band giving a warning that the 
interval was at an end. Another musician banged the 


19 JULY, 1919 215 

big drum, a third blew a blast on the trombone. Wil¬ 
liam swallowed the wine in his glass, and asked Miss 
Pamment if she would dance with him, receiving an 
unenthusiastic reply that she would love to. 

“I'm going to dance, Major,” he told Eveline's hus¬ 
band. 

“Good fellow! You’ll find me here afterwards.” 

He moved with the crowd through an archway, and 
came to the ballroom, ablaze with electric light, 
coloured balloons, and festoons of paper chains. With 
a crash of tinpots and other unconventional instru¬ 
ments the band started. He saw that the orchestra 
consisted of Negroes. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Miss Pamment, 
golden haired and slim in a gown of bronze and gold 
taffetas. She paused with his arm round her waist, and 
looked with innocent surprise into his face. 

“What extraordinary music, Miss Pamment!” 

“It’s a jazz.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It has just come, over from America. Don’t you 
think it rather thrilling?” 

“I think it’s fine. Let’s dance!” 

“Rather!” 

He was light on his feet. The beat of the music pro¬ 
vided a rhythm that led them away airily as one of 
the balloons swaying over their heads. He was wildly 
happy. All the orchestra grinned at the dancers. One 
Negro playing the piano yelled to him as he passed, 

I sure am some ivory rattler , 60’/ and his white teeth 
flashed. Another banged a bass drum, rattled bones, 
clashed cymbals, and thumped a row of tinpots; three 
were playing banjos, and a dusky Negress was playing 
a wind instrument that sent the most heartbroken 


2l6 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


wails above the din and clatter. They were continually 
bumped into by other couples: when this happened he 
usually apologised and received a spontaneous apology 
from the man, but often a haughty stare from the 
women. He was not looking where he was going, owing 
to a desire to see Eveline. When after the dance and 
the encore demanded by handclapping he was sitting 
with Miss Pamment in an alcove, she explained the 
reason. 

“You see, Captain Maddison, it hurts to be bumped 
if you are a woman, and, besides, we have a dread of 
appearing untidy in public. A girl would rather be 
starving then slovenly. Men are not so fastidious, are 
they?” She smiled, and he wondered if she were re¬ 
ferring to his worn shoes, flannel trousers, old tweed 
coat, and the faded school tie of red, black, and yellow 
bars; certainly she did not appear to have noticed the 
oddmedodd’s attire. 

“John seems to be happy, doesn’t he?” 

He looked across the empty floor, and saw that he 
was standing above Eveline, who was seated, and 
laughing at something she said. The woman on Wil¬ 
liam’s right, an angular Pierette, was discussing them 
with her partner, and he heard her say—“No one seems 
to know who she was before her marriage. She is curi¬ 
ously reticent about that point. But I should say she 
was hardly out of the top drawer! Posing all the time, 
my dear. Fancy coming in a costume like that! ” 

Miss Pamment heard as well, for she smiled at him, 
and whispered, “The voice of envy, Captain Maddi¬ 
son,” and he furiously nodded assent. 

“Have you known Mrs. Fairfax very long, Miss 
Pamment?” 


19 JULY, 1919 217 

“No, I’ve only just met her. But Lionel Fairfax we’ve 
known for ages.” 

“And has Sir John known her long?” 

“A week, I think.” 

“I imagined that Mrs. Fairfax and he were old 
friends, since he came as Lord Nelson.” 

“An absolute coincidence,” she replied immediately, 
and went on in her demure voice, “Mrs. Fairfax has a 
genius for making friends quickly. The conventions 
that enslave us ordinary folk have no chance to bind 
her. She has a great number of friends, and not a few 
enemies, I fear! Have you known her long, Captain 
Maddison?” 

“Oh, yes. Are you great friends with Lord Sprey- 
combe, Miss Pamment?” 

“Not awfully much. He lives near my grandfather’s 
place, and I’ve met him there, with his old father, Lord 
Slepe. John’s younger brother, who was killed in the 
war, was Naps’ fag at Eton. Are you an O.E.” 

“No, I went to Colham School.” 

“Oh, really? Isn’t that where Rupert Bryers, the 
poet who was killed in Gallipoli, went?” 

“He was a great friend of mine, Miss Pamment, and 
once we planned to run away to America together.” 

He told her about the adventure, omitting the sad 
ending of it; and when the band commenced, Sir John 
Lorayne bowed to Eveline, and slid across the floor to 
Miss Pamment. 

“Have you been enjoying yourself, John,” she asked. 

“Very diverting, old thing,” he answered, “bit choppy 
though, so I thought I’d put back into harbour.” He 
nodded and grinned at William, who bowed to him, 
then to Miss Pamment, and walked across the floor to 


2l8 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


Eveline, around whom two young men were hovering. 
William went to her to claim the next dance. 

“This is ours, I think, Lady Hamilton ?” 

“I think it must be, Lord Tornsox!” 

“But, Mrs. Fairfax, you promised,” exclaimed one of 
the young men, with straw-coloured hair and china- 
blue eyes, who was dressed as an Indian rajah, “the 
one before the supper dance, surely! I haven't 
got my programme—beastly bad form to have 
programmes.” 

“A Rajah and an Oddmedodd claimants for a dance 
with Emma Hamilton! What an embarrassment for 
her!” 

The Indian rajah stubbornly stood before her, and 
looked disdainfully at William's garb. Giving him a 
swift and expressionless glance, William said to her, 
“There is no further embarrassment for you, Mrs. Fair¬ 
fax,” and, bowing, he went away to the bar and drank 
another glass of wine with Major Fairfax, who had just 
paid two guineas for his ticket. 

“I see your pal Mary over there, Maddison,” said 
Major Fairfax. “An awfully pretty girl, don’t you 
think? Why not go and dance with her?” 

“Perhaps she won’t like to be seen with me in these 
clothes, sir.” 

“Rot, m'dear fellow. Don't you ever let trivial details 
upset you—although, of course, I quite understand that 
in this case it's out of consideration for a lady. Good 
lord, you fought and suffered for England, and this is 
the night of rejoicing. You toddle along, m'boy.” 

“But I don't know the lady with her.” 

“Come along o' me, m'dear chap. I'll soon put you 
right.” 

He took William to the two ladies sitting out in an 


19 JULY, 1919 219 

alcove, and introduced him to Mrs. Pamment, the 
mother of the girl with whom he had just danced, and 
the aunt of Mary Ogilvie. The band was playing a 
crashing tune which most of the five hundred dancers 
were humming as they moved round the parquet floor. 
William asked Mary if she would dance with him. She 
nodded and got up. She wore a tartan kilt and stock¬ 
ings, with red heels to her black buckled shoes, a short 
slashed waistcoat of black velvet over a shirtblouse 
with flowing white cravat. There was lace at throat 
and wrists. On her dark head she wore a bonnet with 
blackcocks’ feathers, and the plaid over her left shoul¬ 
der was fastened by a large brooch enclosing a cairn¬ 
gorm stone in a silver clasp wrought in the shape of a 
thistle. She stood slender and straight in her maidenly 
composure. 

“Are you supposed to be anything special?” asked 
William, while they were dancing, trying to make 
conversation. 

“Why, do you think a girl oughtn’t to wear a man’s 
clothes.” 

“Why not, if she wants to?” 

“Well, you see, Willie, some people would say it 
wasn’t done. Mother would be furious if she knew. 
But they were Micky’s things when he was a boy, and 
I wore them in—sort of, well, I can’t forget him, 
although it is such a happy evening.” 

“Is it?” muttered William, half to himself, and in his 
mind was lighted by memory a sombre picture of flame 
and smoke and shards upbursting from broken earth 
like the blown coaldust fire round an iron wheelhoop 
in a blacksmith’s forge; and moving slowly in corpse 
rotten mud were men with faces toadstool-pale under 
their helmets, men with dislustred eyes, hollowminded 


220 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


and beyond fear. They were men who had bidden 
farewell to wife, mother, child—who had loved the 
green fields, the evening-talk in some town tavern. 
They were entirely human, of no class or creed, of no 
race or nation. 

He moved with the hectic throng, with the mass 
shuffling anti-clockwise to the bombilation of negroid 
music. Pierrots and Irish colleens, Gladiators and 
Chanticleers, Jesters and Quaker girls, Chevaliers and 
Newsboys, Charlie Chaplins and Milkmaids, Bo¬ 
hemians from the Quatier Latin and Butterflies, Fairies 
and Water Nymphs. Pale cheeks and sunbrown 
cheeks, painted cheeks and pencilled eyebrows, lamp- 
blacked lashes and blue-rubbed eyelids. Eyes that 
were sweet and young and gentle, eyes that were old 
and hard and ogling. Pupils shining with love and 
happiness; liquefied by belladonna and diminished by 
morphine sulphate. Blood-red lips and carmined lips, 
lustrous hair and dyed hair, hair in waist-long tresses 
and in plaits, hair false in coil and pad and gummed 
whisker-curl. Young and old, they sought personal 
happiness, he thought, one among pompoms a-swing 
and scarves floating above the sussurration of skirts 
and the sibilation of shoes. They clasped aloofly, 
firmly, tenderly, amiably, delightedly, abandonedly* 
round waists and shoulders and necks. The brilliant 
lights shone on the Peace Night revellers. 

Afterwards they sat out in the palm court beside a 
fountain. Laughter and talk filtered from the lounge 
over the tiles and round the ferns. Through the glass 
framework the night sky glowed with the reflection of 
fire on the dews descending. 

“I suppose I’m the most disreputable person pres¬ 
ent,” he said suddenly. “A real oddmedodd!” 


221 


19 JULY, 1919 

“What is an oddmedodd?” 

“One of those creatures whom the winds roughen, on 
whom the rains fall. A scarecrow—whom men fix on a 
cross as a warning, but which even the thieving crows 
despise.” 

“I think they are lovely things—like owls and stars. 
And children love them!” 

She leaned forward and took his hand. It lay limp 
in her own, and then was quietly withdrawn. They 
sat still. She realized that once again she was thrusting 
the unwanted affection of friendship upon him. The 
pride in her heart that would have raised a barrier be¬ 
fore any other man was overlaid and crushed by the 
desire to comfort him. She spoke to him no more as he 
sat huddled in a wicker chair, and when the beating of 
the big drum announced the supper dance, she got up 
and strolled in. He followed her, and she waited for 
him at the top of the marble steps leading to the 
lounge. In the candlelight she saw his face, and his 
eyes were contemplative and sad, filled with a pity for 
something infinitely beyond his personal compassion. 
He looked at her and smiled, and she stamped her foot 
and said: 

“Why do you allow anyone to steal your happiness, 
Willie boy?” 

They walked over the carpet of the lounge, strewn 
with cigarette ends, coming to the hall through which 
other couples from nooks and crannies were passing to 
the ballroom. He said, pretending to have mistaken her 
meaning, 

“Yes, I was foolish to be worried by fancied remarks 
about my clothes.” 

She glanced nervously at him, and said nothing. He 
felt a curious feeling of satisfaction at her agitation on 


222 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


his behalf, which induced a sensation of relief, a 
moment’s forgetfulness of Eveline, and an exceeding 
happiness. His eyes lit and his face became joyous. 

“Come on, young Clippetty Clop, let’s dance,” he 
said. 

By one of the fluted columns at the ballroom’s en¬ 
trance he saw Emma Hamilton talking and laughing 
with the Executioner, the Rajah, Lord Nelson, and 
Major Fairfax, all with wineglasses in their hands. He 
was free again. He turned joyously to Mary and 
clasped her without asking her permission. She al¬ 
lowed him to lead her away. During the dance she did 
not speak, feeling ashamed and snubbed, and wounded 
because he had chosen her not for her own self, but as 
a means (she thought) of making Mrs. Fairfax jealous. 
And the thought of Mrs. Fairfax’s child came into her 
mind, making her angry; and then she blushed, and 
would not look at his face; and at the boisterous end of 
the dance she was despising herself. 

Sir John Lorayne had managed to secure one of the 
few tables for his party, and while a crowd of men bore 
away plates and jugs and glasses to their ladies wait¬ 
ing patiently in ballroom, lounge, dining room, and 
even on the stairs, Mrs. Pamment and her daughter 
and niece sat down with the two men and her younger 
son, a merry schoolboy dressed as a cow-puncher and 
wearing round his waist a pair of revolvers, the ham¬ 
mers of which he was continually clicking. A man¬ 
servant who, with tattoed wrists and torn ear, looked 
exactly what he was—a disguised A.B.,—was most 
anxious lest they should miss any dish, and brought 
them during the meal and in rapid succession plates of 
sandwiches of lobster, crab, salmon, cucumber, ham, 
tongue, chicken, and egg-and-cress; and then fancy 


19 JULY, 1919 223 

cakes, chocolate biscuits, shortbreads, dundee, madeira, 
and cherry cake. He fetched for their approval dishes 
of banana-custard, trifle, fruit salad, jellies and blanc 
manges, caramels and junkets. In his horny hands he 
held tall jugs of cut-glass with cider cup and claret cup, 
moselle cup and hock cup, all with ice floating in the 
amber and ruby liquids. Afterwards came peche melba 
and strawberry or vanilla ices, and cold Mocha coffee, 
and Turkish cigarettes bought in “Constant.” by 
Tubby himself. 

“Well done, Harnett,” said Tubby, nodding pleas¬ 
antly at him; “now you go ashore and enjoy yourself.” 

“Very good, Sir John,” replied A. B. Harnett, coming 
smartly to attention and instantly disappearing. 

“I say, do look at that horror over there,” said Miss 
Pamment in her demure voice, laying on his sleeve the 
fingertips of a brown hand slender as an otter’s pad; 
“isn’t she a scream?” 

The cause of Miss Pamment’s horror was an elderly 
woman sitting by herself in a corner. Her large fat 
face was patched in red where moisture had rui> 
through the powder like snow thawing on the tiled 
roof of a barn. A tortoiseshell comb in the pile of her 
yellow frizzy hair flashed with diamonds, as did the 
corsage of her purple gown and every joint, it seemed, 
of her fingers. She seemed to have no neck, and the 
folds of her quadruple chin rested forlorn and vast on 
her chest. She wore gold stockings and shoes. 

“I’ve been watching her,” continued Miss Pamment. 
“She hasn’t had anything to eat. I suppose no man is 
brave enough to approach her.” 

“Ho, you forgets yer little Tubbers, darlin-ger!” said 
Tubby in a mimic-cockney voice. “Ever since me 
farver George told me the meaning of no-blessy o-blyge 


224 THE dream of fair women 

I’ve always been the perfect little gent. Now’s me 
chance, what?” 

“Tubby, don’t be an ass!” begged Miss Pamment 
with a smiling look of admiration on her fair face. "I 
say, you’ll only get snubbed by her if you do.” 

Tubby had seized a plate of sandwiches in one hand 
and a plate of cakes in the other, and balancing them 
in imitation of a waiter, he went with long strides to' 
the lonely woman. With an amused look Mrs. Pam¬ 
ment watched him, until he came back with a grin, 
and whispered as he sat down. 

“Tve got me reward. She said ‘Ta much, dearie.’ I 
thought, as a matter of fact, of asking her to join our 
merry little party over here, but me nerve failed when 
I saw the sparklers so prolific-like, for I didn’t want me 
ma-in-law to be jealous.” 

He nodded at Mrs. Pamment, who smiled and 
squeezed his arm fondly. William liked him for his 
warm humanity, and realized with a sinking heart that 
others seeing himself so quiet and dull would consider 
him an unprepossessing person, not knowing that he 
was striving to serve the new race by his vision. He 
knew that Mrs. Pamment was looking at him, and, 
feeling that he ought to have volunteered to take Miss 
Pamment’s horror something to drink, he got up with¬ 
out a word and went over to her. She was taking mi¬ 
nute bites at an egg-and-cress sandwich. 

“I say, do let me get you something to drink, will 
you?” he asked her, and her smile revealed some 
teeth of gold. 

“Thank you awfully,” she replied; “now, I call that 
reely kind, I do ” 

“Champagne?” 

“Ta much, dearie.” 


19 JULY, 1919 225 

He got a bottle and a clean glass after waiting some 
minutes, and went back to her. She made room for 
him to sit down, somewhat to his consternation, and 
began to talk like one who has been repressing some 
anxiety. 

“I suppose that nice boy who brought me some food 
is your brother? No? Well, the Scotch girl is surely 
your sister, isn’t she? I mean to say, I could have 
sworn you was brother and sister. I had a boy some¬ 
what like you once.” 

“In the war, I suppose, maaam?” 

“Yes, killed, the poor little darling, and only 
eighteen, too; but the lad would go, and neither me nor 
his father wanted to stand in his way. A flying ob¬ 
server, in the R.F.C., he was.” 

“Yes,” said William, realizing the futility of words. 

“Well, cheery-oh, as my poor little dead Herbie used 
to say. Cheery-oh, Mr. What-do-you-call-it! My best 
respects!” The restraint of her grief, and the melan¬ 
choly tone of her voice, somehow made him feel 
serene. 

“Are you alone?” he asked. 

“Yes, dearie,” she sighed. “Me and Father came 
down to Findlestone to see our other boy, who’s got 
some swell friends down here. I suppose you don’t 
happen to know anyone of the name of Warbeck— 
Lieutenant Warbeck of Oozarrs? Or a Mrs. d’Arcy 
Fairfax?” 

“Are you Mrs. Warbeck?” asked William, in¬ 
terested. 

“Oh, no, I’m Mrs. White. Only my boy, Peter, is 
always mentioning those names in his letters, so the 
lad’s father and me thought we’d come down and see 
him here when he wouldn’t come home for Peace Day. 


226 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

I suppose he’s a bit ashamed of his old parents. X mean 
to say, anyone could see with half an eye that I’m not 
quite the lady, couldn’t they?” 

She looked anxiously at him, and he replied truth¬ 
fully but evasively that he had not thought about it. 

“Don’t you find I jar you a little?” 

“No, of course you don’t!” 

“Well, my Peter told me my manners jarred on him. 
That’s my mistake for trying to make the lad a gentle¬ 
man. We sent him to the best school we could get him 
into—perhaps you know Harrow, do you? And then 
he went to Sandhurst—it’s reely the Royal Military 
College, but they all calls it Sandhurst. It makes Peter 
nearly cry when I call it ‘College.’ ” 

“I think I met him this afternoon,” said William. 

Mrs. White was very anxious to hear all about her 
son, and he told her that when he had left him he was 
resting, in order to be fresh for the evening, which was 
the literal truth. 

“Dad went to bed tired. I mean to say, he isn’t used 
to drinking very much, and he worked very hard in the 
war. We had a little place in Brum before the war, 
making magnetos, but you should see it now, Mr. 
What-do-you-call-it! But Peter won’t go near it.” 

“I suppose he knows you’ve come?” 

“Oh, yes. We wanted to get into the place where he 
stays, the Victoria, but he wrote and said it was full up, 
so father and me come here instead. It’s the leading 
hotel, isn’t it? Do I drop any aitches?” 

“No. Do I?” 

She laughed. 

“I’m waiting up in case Peter comes. If you see 
him, you might tell him I’m here, will you? I mean to 


19 JULY, 1919 227 

say, I shall be here till I go up to our suite on the first 
floor. Now, that’s reely kind of you. No, I won’t have 
any more wine, thank you, dearie, or I shall be snoozing 
off, and I want to see the little lad when he comes.” 

When she had mentioned the name of her son, he 
had at once become dejected. Eveline and Lionel were 
sitting at a table with Lord Spreycombe and his elder 
sister, and another couple—a man dressed as an Arab 
sheik whom William recognised as a staff-major on the 
headquarters of the Cavalry Corps in France, and a 
girl dressed as a Turkish woman. Lady Rachel Cerr- 
Nore, as Queen Elizabeth, sat upright and stiff, partly 
on account of Eveline’s presence, and partly because 
her ginger wig was intensely hot, her ruff made her chin 
sore, and the whalebone corset was oppressive. She 
had the slanting dark eyes of her brother, but her lips 
were not so red or thick. She was not enjoying herself, 
and answered with reserved graciousness the frequent 
remarks of Eveline, whose brilliant colouring of face 
and eyes was drawing the attention of all at the sur¬ 
rounding tables. Her own table, with the exception of 
the unbending Lady Rachel, was kept in continuous 
laughter by her drolleries and conceits. Sir Rudolph 
Cardew, the veteran actor-manager, beautifully mellow 
after a pint of Perrier Jouet and a bottle of ’64 port, 
sauntering in a detachment of reverie through the 
assembly with his monocle twirling on its black riband, 
his patriarchal white hair so glossy and his dress 
clothes so pluperfect, stopped before her as though she 
were the only woman in the room, and in a hush he 
bowed to her companions, and fixing the monocle in an 
eye, his cadent voice was heard to say: 

“Ah, Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax, had I been dead a cycle of 


228 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


centuries, and you passed by me grave, me bones would 
rise joyfully, ah, joyfully, at the sound of your voice, 
and dance in me tomb.” 

William heard the words, and saw the animation 
fade from her face, leaving it still and grave and awed. 
And taking the tips of her fingers, he bowed low over 
them and touched them with his lips; bowed to Lady 
Rachel and to Major Fairfax, allowed his monocle to 
fall; passed his forefinger and thumb down the broad 
riband; and sauntered towards the further door as 
though he were in an empty room, twirling his 
monocle. 

Shortly afterwards the drum was banged, and many 
young men cheered. The strings of balloons were 
pulled down by servants, and everyone scrambled to 
obtain one. A dinner-waggon laden with toys was 
pushed across the floor by the maitre de reception , and 
promptly pushed over by the rowdier youths, and 
ticklers, scrammel pipes, whistles, swallow-burrs, flags 
of the Allies, fools’ caps and bladders, rubber imp faces 
with tongues that stuck out on squeezing, and a score 
of other delights were picked up and laughingly in¬ 
spected. The Jazz band began, and hundreds of 
coloured paper ropes and chains and tapes were thrown 
in curl and festoon and whizzing lunules over the 
multiloquent heads. The revellers wove and interwove 
in their abandon to natural joy, speaking to anyone 
and everybody, blowing whistles in the ears of strangers 
and allowing themselves to be enwound with brittle 
web and chain. Lady Rachel Cerr-Nore was tickled 
under the chin by a Yankee doughboy and actually 
laughed, when with glistening face near her ruff he 
shouted, “Gee, I guess this is a bully country after all.” 
Above the din could be heard the rattle of the hunting 


19 JULY, 1919 229 

horn blown by Lord Spreycombe, and his strident yells 
of “Tear’m, tear’m, tear’m, li’l bitches, Til bitches, 
tear’m, tear’m.” Pushed hither and thither William 
experienced a surge of happiness so strong that he felt 
if only his voice could equal it his shouts would roll 
round the earth: that the spirit of the moment’s 
fraternity must never be lost, never be allowed to sub¬ 
side, but must gather impetus and be grasped for ever, 
so that enmity and strife should perish for ever! And 
with shining eyes he looked around him, his head above 
most men. 

At the end of the dance hotel servants cleared the 
floor of litter, and while he was standing against a 
pilaster, William saw strolling into the ballroom a sol¬ 
dier he had not noticed before. He was tall and with a 
small dark moustache, in a blue patrol jacket with 
high collar, and his trousers with red piping down the 
seams were fastened under his Wellington boots. On 
his shoulder straps he wore the three gilt stars of a 
captain’s rank, and a row of medal ribands on his left 
breast. The slim and elegant figure had an air of 
aloofness, and as he came nearer, occasionally glancing 
at the faces of men and women seated round the walls, 
William recognized his cousin Phillip. He got up and 
walked towards him, noticing with pride that the first 
ribands of the row were the Distinguished Service 
Order and the Mons Star with silver rosette. His face 
was still thin, but not so pale or haggard as when he 
had last seen him; he wore his black hair short and his 
deep blue eyes had the same speculative look thao had 
been so pronounced in him as a boy. 

Phillip stared at William, and said, as he came for¬ 
ward to shake him gladly by the hand: 


230 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Willie, old man, what an immense relief to meet 
you in this wilderness!" 

“But where did you come from? I had no idea-" 

“But what are you doing here? I thought you were 
at Rookhurst!" 

“I’ve been living in North Devon." 

“I'm wandering about spare at present. I've chucked 
the service." Phillip offered him a cigarette, with a 
hand that shook as it held out the case. “I say, Willie, 
how about a spot to drink? Let's get out of this 
crowd." 

They went to the bar, and over whiskey-and-soda 
Philip told his cousin that he had been at his home for 
two days, and that the Peace Celebrations in the Lon¬ 
don suburb where he lived had so depressed him that 
he had been “unable to stick it any further." 

“I got my motor-bike and came down here—two 
hours blind over bumpy roads—I've left it in a garage. 
I used to be in the Rest Camp on the Leas." 

“I know," said William, looking at him. 

“Who told you?" 

“Lina." 

Phillip's cheeks went white, his cheekbones flushed, 
and he took a gulp from his tumbler. William's heart 
was beating in his throat and ears. They did not look 
at each other. 

“She’s here to-night, old man." 

“Yes, I thought she might be. I say, have another 
gasper?" 

“No, thanks; I've still got this one." 

Three wassailing old men were standing near, and 
one of them, an old dug-out colonel lately commandant 
of a Rest Camp, and known to the populace as The 
Flapper King, kept repeating drunkenly: 


19 JULY, 1919 231 

“She’s ravishing. She’s glorioush. Our day’s gone. 
Day f’ youth. We’r hashbeens. All pretty women, 
g’bless’m, after th’ boys. Day f’ youth. Drink up, 
g’en’men.” 

“I say, have you seen her yet?” said William. 

“Not yet. I say,” he whispered. “That fellow 
behind me is Colonel Tar, my late Commandant. I 
don’t want him to see me.” 

Another gulp. 

“Let’s clear!” 

“Right-ho!” 

They went away. 

“Do you know Major Fairfax, Phillip?” 

“Is—is he here, Willie?” 

“Yes. An awfully nice chap.” 

The colour was coming back to Phillip’s cheeks. 

“Tell me, Willie, how did you meet her?” 

“In Devon, Phillip.” 

He heard him give a kind of gasp, but when he spoke 
again, about another subject, his voice was normal. It 
so happened that as they stood in the hall by the lift 
they encountered her as she was returning alone from 
the cloakroom. She stopped as she saw Phillip. Her 
eyes became large and she did not smile. Phillip looked 
at her steadily. 

“Well, Phea?” she said, as though with an effort to 
put a faint smile on her lips only, “why do you stare at 
me like that?” 

His voice was low and sad. 

“Only because I have not seen you for so long a time, 
Betty.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down? It 
is rather a—a shock, meeting you so suddenly like this.” 


232 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Let's get some refreshments, and we can talk/' 
stammered Phillip, trying to smile. 

“Refreshments? My dear Phea, you're not at a 
surburban hop. We've had supper." 

Phillip winced. 

Eveline said decidedly, “I must go back to the ball¬ 
room. My husband is waiting. Would you like to 
meet him?" 

His cheekbones burned red. Standing stiffly, he re¬ 
plied with quivering pride: 

“No. Do not let him wait in vain. I have just come 
seventy-five miles to see you once more, and I have 
seen you. Good-bye—hark! It is twelve o'clock! I 
am just in time to shake you by the hand on the day of 
days—what did we plan for Victory Night long ago? 
It doesn't matter. It is over now. Yes, it is over," he 
murmured, in a voice without reproach or disesteem. 
Turning to his cousin he shook hands with him, said 
“Good-bye, old man, and all the best!" in a firm voice, 
and taking his uniform cap from a peg, walked out of 
the hotel for ever. 

She shivered, and said wistfully to William, “Com¬ 
ing?" but when he made no reply she went on alone. 
He walked unsteadily into the lounge, a shadowy place 
of soft carpets, couches, and deep armchairs holding 
still couples from whom came a low laugh, a whisper, 
an unheeded protest. It seemed to him that he walked 
in a nightmarish dream: that he would awake and find 
himself in his room at home, and that the strange war¬ 
time and the stranger peacetime would fade as phan¬ 
tasms of a night's unrest, that it would be time to get 
up and prepare for school. This feeling passed, giving 
way to an obscurity of mystical thought, wherein it 
seemed that life was an incomprehensible illusion, that 


19 JULY, 1919 233 

natural reality was the calm and untroublous after¬ 
sleep known as death. The after-sleeping was real, 
and life a little wayward sojourn from it, like moisture 
in clouds that inevitably, predestinately, went back to 
the ocean. 

He sat down in a dark comer. In the distance was 
audible the thrumming of the band. He had been re¬ 
clining only a short time when he saw the figure of 
Eveline enter the door, and hesitate, turning one way 
then another, searching. The exhausting emotions of 
the last forty-eight hours, the lack of sleep, the tension 
of expectancy, these were beginning to produce a re¬ 
action; he sat still, imagining that he cared nothing 
for her. When with a low exclamation she found him 
and swiftly moved to him he rose to his feet, swaying 
a little, and offered his chair. She sat down, making 
place for him beside her. In the dim room, lit by 
candelabra on the far side, she faced him; but not with 
the faltering glance of a minute past. Those eyes now 
were very gentle, the lips near his own; mouth came to 
mouth, bosom to bosom, and girdling arms; and having 
sought and found, eyes closed upon reality, drawing 
over themselves the cloak of rapture, wilder than any 
known, since in its rush it carried away all fret, all 
doubt, all wasting pain. 

The candles on the far mantelpiece burned on in 
small flickering gold points, yet radiant to him like the 
branched buttercups of May meadows. In the mir¬ 
rors they shook and quivered as though respondent to 
his own felicity. 

“Eve, I can’t go on without you,” he murmured 
against her breast, in whose soft warmth heart’s bubble 
was breaking the faster for his touch. 

She whispered: 


234 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“I’ve been whirling life around me ever since we 
parted, in order to forget.” 

“You wanted to forget me? 0 God, I can’t believe 
it.” 

She pointed to an eastern window, filled by the moon 
rising over the black chimney stacks on the Leas 
houses. He stared at it, thinking it was like the 
powdered face of a broken-hearted clown. Her fingers 
caressed his neck, and he returned to enfold her, touch¬ 
ing with his lips the hot eyelids. She murmured, half 
playfully: 

“Querulous child, what do you know of the secret 
shrine in a woman’s heart, on the altars of which burn 
the candles for slain dreams?” 

“Why did you leave me so cruelly, Eve?” he 
murmured. 

She made no reply; and he knew she was weeping. 
He took her closer; the tears wetted his cheek. The 
slow falling music of the Eton Boating Song came to 
them, the moon filled dark corners of the room with a 
pale cold light, 

“Why are you weeping?” 

“Because everything I do seems to bring pain to 
someone else, and b-because one part of me is w-wastrel 
of love, and w-wicked-” 

“But you love me, don’t you? Kiss me, my darling.” 

“That is not the faithful visionary speaking.” 

“I care nothing for visions. Say that you still love 
me.” 

She did not speak. 

“Eve, you torture me.” 

“No, my darling. Do you know, I am a little afraid 
of you. I believe you would break my heart if you 
could, break it by forcing a w-way into its very core. 


19 JULY, 1919 235 

You are too strong for me, for you Lave the white 
spirit of childhood—a spirit untainted by what is called 
life. I am like that in a way, such a lesser way, be¬ 
cause I am a woman, I suppose. Ah, no, I am stronger 
than you—poor lost child—whose hands beating at my 
heart seem to turn it to flame . . . when I think of 
going home after this, to his home . . . and after the 
wine . . .” 

They sat holding hands. The Boating Song ended, 
and there was a silence following, in contrast to the 
usual bruit after the jazz. Then shadowy couples 
strolled into the lounge, rested, and drifted out again 
when the harsh rhythms started. Others came in, 
searching for dark places, murmuring: “How about 
over there?” or: “Is there anyone on that couch?” and, 
perhaps: “So sorry! Couldn't see you!”—a laugh, a 
moving away, and then stillness. As the moon rose 
higher they could see the tearstains on the powdered 
clown face. A clock chimed the half-hour. It would 
soon be one o'clock. 

“Billy, who was that woman alone in the corner you 
were talking to at supper?” 

“She said she was Mrs. White.” 

“What did she want?” 

“She said she was waiting for her son, Peter White, 
a cadet.” 

“Oh, yes, I know him slightly. He is rather a nice 
little boy. He was supposed to come to tea to-day, but 
didn't turn up. He likes playing with Jonquil on the 
floor. Oh, Billy, Phea did frighten me.” 

“Another one!” 

“I swear, he isn't, Billy. I can't help it if men get 
silly over me. I think I shall go and bum my hair and 


236 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

face in the bonfire, and then no one will care about 
me.” 

He kissed her, and whispered: 

“Eve, come under the pines down the Leas.” 

“Yes.” 

“We can slip out through the conservatory.” 

“Yes, wait here. I’ll get my cloak.” 

Like thieves they departed. The crowd was thick 
round the bonfire, which had crashed, and from the 
heap went up flames lambent in the moonlight. A 
party of soldiers was hopping to the tune of mouth- 
organs and a concertina played by A. B. Harnett, .caps 
on the backs of heads, bottles sticking out of jacket 
pockets. They stopped to watch them. 

“Dear fellows,” he said, thinking of the men of his 
old “squadroon,” “if they could be always so happy! I 
wonder if their dead pals can see them now? Do you 
know Owen’s Greater Love.” 

Red lips are not so red, 

As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. 
Kindness of woo’d and wooer 
Seems shame to their love pure 
O Love, your eyes lose lure, 

When I behold eyes blinded in my stead. 

“The grousing, skrimshanking, sentimental tom¬ 
mies! The dearest fellows-” he added, with a break 

in his voice. 

She pressed to her heart the hand she held so tightly, 
and then to her lips. Together they went down the cliff 
path, and so to the dark pines. The tongue of the wind 
drew itself over the black tops, stirring to sound every 
needle, Gently he uncloaked her, spreading the cloak 



2 37 


19 JULY, 1919 

of white furs on the forest floor where was no moon¬ 
light, and drew her down into the darkness, and hid his 
face in her hair. 

Sunken to a glowing mass was the bonfire when they 
passed it on their way back. The soldiers were gone; 
stray couples stood gazing at the ruinous pile, and 
lonely figures were asleep near it, and a homeless cur 
dog. Through the conservatory they slipped into the 
lounge, in darkness now the candles were guttered. It 
would be three o’clock soon, but still the dance revolved 
unwearied, the banjos strummed tautly, the Negroes 
shouted their wide-mouthed pleasantries. Major 
Fairfax told them that “one of her pals named Warbeck 
had just been slung out, after knocking all the silk hats 
off their pegs, stamping on them, and fighting five 
waiters.” He himself had been engrossed in a game 
of poker, and hoped that he hadn’t been too selfish, or 
been away too long. She replied that they had been 
outside in the moonlight, whereupon he suggested a 
dance, and they joined the tireless throng. William 
watched till the stir hid them, saw the last turn of her 
heels, and went out into the thin ghastly light of the 
false dawn. 

The Leas were deserted, the lamps extinguished, the 
bonfires a heap of embers from which rose and played 
lilac and blue flames that swayed one way or another 
like a cloud of gnats. A great heat was thrown out. 
He lay down on his side, head pillowed on left arm. 
Almost at once he must have slept, for later he awoke 
stiff and cold, crawling immediately towards the 
warmth, followed by the cur dog that had been curled 
against his back. 


CHAPTER VI 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 

Thrushes were singing when he awoke, chilled and 
weary, with the mongrel licking his face. The fire was 
a rough flat circle of white ash around which a few di¬ 
shevelled figures were lying. Hundreds of bottles, 
black, green, and transparent, whole and broken, 
labelled and plain, were scattered with paper, orange- 
peel, stoppers, Mr. Archibald Dodder’s bowler, boots 
and shoes, a set of false teeth, a woman’s tom skirt, 
walking sticks, flattened hats, fragments of food, and 
a dead eave-martin winged by the heat. At 
one edge of the fire stood a discoloured iron seat, 
evidently uprooted from the promenade and cast 
on the bonfire during the frolics. Across the 
embers the Grand Hotel quivered and faded in 
the hot air arising, seeming insubstantial and remote 
as the happenings of the night before. He arose and 
stretched, then went down to the deserted beach, and 
bathed in the sea. He returned fresh and clear-minded 
to the Leas, resting gratefully in the beams of the rising 
sun. On the blue and silver water fishing boats were 
waiting slacksailed for a breeze. Strolling to the town, 
he bought a newspaper, glanced at the uninteresting 
headlines, and dropped it in the gutter. To the lower 
quarter down a steep cobbled road he went, going into 
an eating house and ordering some breakfast. A 

238 


19 JULY, 1919 239 

tousled girl with undamed stockings and dragging slip¬ 
pers brought him some kind of fried fish called aussie, 
margarine, marmalade and a pint of strong tea which 
he drank from a thick mug. He discovered that 
“aussie” was a euphemism for dog-fish, and gave half 
of it to the curdog, with all the margarine. Afterwards 
he went to look at the Bogside shop, finding that the 
paint had not been removed, and that several miserable 
flies were stuck to it. While he gazed the cur dog was 
sick, and deserted him. 

He asked a milkman the way to the house of Major 
Fairfax, and was directed to a square of ugly Georgian 
houses with stucco fronts and bellpulls, small front 
gardens filled with laurel and privet bushes, and railed 
off from flagged pavements by rusty rails and stone 
gate pillars. A number of cats were sitting in the road¬ 
way and on the pavements before the houses, while 
male and female servants were sweeping and shaking 
rugs and mats. The square of houses looked on to a 
railed garden bordered by trees and shrubs on the lawn 
of which thrushes and blackbirds were hopping 
with sparrows and eagerly running starlings. He saw 
a big cat crouching under a shrub, its yellow eyes fixed 
on a wren stittering above it. He recognized the mon¬ 
ster as belonging to Major Fairfax’s grandfather, and 
threw a piece of earth at it. 

“I’m glad you’ve ’ittim,” spoke someone behind, 
“great fat ugly birdketching fleabitten creature.” He 
looked over the bushes and the railings, and saw a 
female servant standing there, leaning on a broom. 

“Do you mean Tommy?” asked William. 

“Yes, that’s Tommy Three, the great fat ugly crea¬ 
ture. All through the war he had to have his meat 
though we was starving. I wish some dog would ketch 


240 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

him and wring his neck, but lorblessme, sir, Tommy 
Three can fight any dog. And the old gent would die 
on a spot if his cat was in peril. ’Tisn’t right, I think, 
to keep cats in luxury while working people starves. 
And him that was a parson, too!” 

“Mr. Fairfax was a parson?” 

“Yes, and more godly in his young days than now, 
with all his talk of British Israel. Nice thing, I don’t 
think, to say that the English are really shonks and 
ebrews, the lorst tribe of Israel. Well, talking won’t 
shake no mats, even if it does put us above the mon¬ 
keys, as some do say, which I doubt, as talk means 
scandal, leastways in this house. If you see Tommy 
Three, just you chuck more dirt at him, the great fat 
ugly birdketcher.” 

“I will. Now can you tell me where Major Fairfax 
lives?” 

Yes, up there.” She pointed to a road crossing one 
of the exits of the square. 

“Thanks very much.” 

“It’s the corner house. Look, if you come in the road 
here you can see it. It wouldn’t take a hen half a min¬ 
ute to step there. The top flat. Good-morning, sir.” 

“Good-morning.” 

She waved her broom, bobbed inside, and William 
went through a gate into the roadway. He saw the 
house and turned the corner to find a flight of worn 
stone steps leading up to the front door. The bow 
windows on either side of the door held paper notices 
that the desirable flat was to be let. He ran up the 
steps and rang the bell. He waited some minutes, then 
opened the door and walked upstairs, past the third 
floor flat, and to a white door, with stained glass mid¬ 
dle, on which was tacked a faded card: 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 241 

BRIGADIER-GENERAL AND MRS. L. M. F. d’ARCY FAIRFAX 


And pasted below it a piece of paper inscribed in 
Eveline’s hand: 


RING, AND WALK IN. 

He pressed the bell, turned the glass handle, and 
stepped across a black Persian carpet laid on the hall 
floor. 

There seemed to be no one about. An open door 
showed what was apparently the drawing-room, and 
he went inside, going at once to the fireplace because 
several photographs of Eveline were silver-framed on 
the shelf above it. In silence he stared at them. 

One was obviously an enlargement from a snapshot. 
She was standing before a tree, her face upheld, with 
loosened hair; the same look of intense soulfulness 
upon it that he remembered in the moonlight when 
first they had kissed. Another, a portrait study of head 
and shoulders, seemed to contain in the laughing lips 
and eyes the shining spirit of earth-joy. A third 
showed her, serious and calm, in riding habit and 
mounted on a tall hunter, hounds grouped below. A 
fourth was taken in natural colours with her husband 
in the uniform of a brigadier-general; how proud she 
looked, standing beside the soldier with red and black 
brassard of corps headquarters-staff, double breastrow 
of ribbons, and four wound stripes. The grave small 
head of Jonquil, in an oval silver frame, was next it; 
and Jonquil as a fat naked baby on her smiling 
mother’s knee. This photograph was soiled, and worn 
at the edge, as though by long carrying in tunic pocket 
—probably one carried in the war, he imagined. 

On a wall hung an oil painting of Eveline as a small 


242 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


child in a briar-torn frock. It was signed by the artist, 
Norman, and bore below the signature the red asterisk 
of purchase when it was on the line at the Royal 
Academy, and the catalogue number. An original 
artist would have hesitated before declaring that Nor¬ 
man possessed an original vision; indeed, many critics 
of his work had ceased, in the year nineteen nineteen, 
to reiterate their views of his art’s rottenness, of its ob¬ 
vious derivation from painters of such widely divergent 
style as Titian, Goya and Romney, without the insight 
of those masters or the technique they had evolved to 
present their vision. To the man staring at it, the 
picture gave a vague feeling of distress. The blue- 
gray eyes were gently sweet in aspect, wide and un¬ 
startled: the face oval, the nose little and childlike; the 
sanguine lips untogether enough to show a gleam of 
small teeth, and just drooping as though in shy pen¬ 
siveness of life. Auburn hair parted and brushed away 
from the brow, falling in two flumes to the ears, whence 
in ropes it slid over the shoulders, through little clutch¬ 
ing hands, and so to the lap, spraying out from the con¬ 
fining plaits like firebirds’ tails. 

He stood before the portrait, the distress becoming 
pain as in his mind the flat surface was breathed, upon, 
and made to rise into life, and to grow, till the maiden 
became wife-old, snatched while immature by an ex¬ 
perienced and mature man. From the painting he re¬ 
turned to contemplate the face of the husband, trying 
to probe behind the level gaze and to estimate the mind 
and feelings of him; but much conjecture resulted in 
nothing. 

The room contained many curios of Eastern travel 
and of the Great War. A pair of German saw-bay¬ 
onets, of the type used by regimental pioneers, was 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


243 

nailed above the mantel, an Iron Cross looped to the 
standard of one by its black-and-silver ribbon. 
Polished field gun cartridge cases were used as vases for 
flowers on the table; a nosecap for a paperweight; 
there were pickle-haubes, Bavarian shakos, the beaver 
of a Deathshead huzzar, a Zeiss aircraft rangefinder. 
The room was furnished in Jacobean oak, with two 
lionskins on the floor, agape in stuffy death. An old 
writing desk filled one corner, open, with paper, pens 
and blotter scattered about untidily; on top of it a 
bunch of roses rested coolly in a silver bowl; used coffee 
cups stood about the room in disarranged chairs, and 
ash was on the floor. 

“Good-morning, mister,” said a hoarse voice. An old 
woman stood at the door, looking with dreary solemnity 
at him. Her face was an irregular knobby red, and 
she wore spectacles with thick lenses that made a look 
at her uncomfortable. 

“Good-morning.” 

“Good-morning, mister.” 

“I suppose you wonder who I am.” 

“I never wonder at nobody nor nothing, mister, 
especially if it happens in this household.” 

He pondered this remark, spoken so solemnly, but 
decided that it had no hidden significance. 

“Please don’t be alarmed: I’m not a burglar. I’m a 
friend of Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“I ain’t never alarmed, mister. When I seed you 
standing there, 1 imagined you were a friend of the 
family, and if you will excuse an old woman, mister, 
anyone could see with the wing of an eye that you are 
a gentleman, in spite of them rough clothes.” 

“I suppose no one’s up yet?” 

“Only me, mister, and my little ducky prancing 


244 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

about upstairs, pretending she’s a corksparrow, hatch¬ 
ing a nest o’ eggs in the basin, hir-hir-he!” 

She ended in wheezy laughter, stretching a big 
mouth. 

“I suppose you’re Martha, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, mister. Who told you?” 

“Quillie.” 

“Why, bless us, mister, then you must be Willum. I 
beg pardon, but that’s the name I know you by.” 

“Yes, I’m William. I hope there wasn’t trouble over 
Quillie’s running away with me.” 

“No trouble, mister, only a few more grey hairs for 
me, but I don’t matter.” 

At that moment the voice of Jonquil called outside: 

“Martha, one of the eggs is aggled. But Quillie’s 
hatched three—such lovely little swallow-babies. May 
Quillie come down, Martha?” 

Martha moved outside, and hoarse whisperings came 
to William. A gurgle of delight, with bare feet pat¬ 
tering, and Jonquil in a cream-coloured sleeping suit 
had leapt up to him, wrapping arms round his neck and 
legs round his waist. 

“W-W-Willum, Willum, Quillie’s so happy you’ve 
come. Quillie’s scrumptiously happy. Martha, Mar¬ 
tha, just you listen to Willum telling about Swallow 
Brow and the fairies.” 

“Hir-hir-he,” chuckled Martha, “you are a caution, 
lovey. My, you’ll be one for the gentlemen when 
you’re older. Hir-hir-he! Ain’t she a dear little love, 
mister? Have you seen her mother when she was a 
little ’un?” 

She pointed to the portrait in oils, and he nodded. 

“Your dog’s here, mister.” 

“Yes, yes, Willum, your dog’s here. Where is her, 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 245 

Martha? Fetch Willum’s dog to Quillie, at once, 
Martha. W-W-Willum!” 

“What?” 

“Your dog barked suthing awful last night. Didn’t 
he, Martha?” 

“Yes, lovey, he did. We tied him up in the boxroom, 
but he shouted the roof off, almost, and so I had him 
with me in the kitchen, and he whined there. And 
when I went to bed, well, he ’offered fit to fetch out 
the lifeboat.” 

“Where is he now?” 

“Gone, mister.” 

She looked very much like a sad frog, with the deep 
upper lip, the wide mouth, and her convex glasses. 
Jonquil dismounted from William as impetuously as 
she had leapt up, and Martha urged her to go upstairs 
and get into bed again, until she came up to dress her. 

“Quillie wants Willum to dress her.” 

“But that ain’t proper, lovey.” 

“Why not?” 

“Hir-hir-he,” gurgled Martha, screwing up her eyes, 
“ ’tisn’t right for a gentleman to dress a lady.” 

“But Willum isn’t a gentleman. Course not. Why, 
look, you dam old fool Martha, his shoes aren’t polished 
and his hair’s all rough. You’re not a gentleman, are 
you, W-W-Willum?” 

“No, Quillie.” 

“Course not. So you can dress me, can’t you?” 

“I’ll do my best. But I haven’t had a lot of practice.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Come on upstairs, Willum, and I’ll 
show you my nest of swallows.” 

“Do you think it will matter, Martha?” 

“No, certainly not, mister. Why, she’s only a baby. 
Criky, there’s the master!” 


246 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

The sound of a door being opened and closed in the 
hall, of a foot thud on the carpet, had made Martha say 
this. 

“Morning, Maddison. I wondered whose voice it was. 
Why, Quillie, you look very fresh, m’dear. Been swim¬ 
ming, Maddison?” 

“Some hours ago, Major. Afraid I must look rather 
untidy, as I haven’t been to bed yet, and my bag is 
down at the Queen’s Hotel, where I left it.” 

“My dear fellow, don’t worry about that. I can lend 
you a razor, and you can have a hot bath if you want 
it.” 

He was in a dressing-gown and slippers, and ob¬ 
viously on the way to the bathroom himself, so William 
thanked him, and declined. 

“M’dear chap, don’t stand on any sort of ceremony 
with us. We’re very simple folk here, y’ know. You 
go and bathe, and I’ll write some letters. They’ve got 
to be written, and it’s immaterial whether before or 
after my bath. Lina’s still sleeping—she’s fagged out 
with the excitement, poor girl. Martha, get Captain 
Maddison a towel, will you? And some tea—I expect 
you’ve a thirst after last night, what?” 

“But, father, Willum mustn’t have a bath now, be¬ 
cause Quillie wants him to dress her. Don’t you, 
Willum.” 

He felt that he had betrayed Jonquil in the stormy 
time that followed. Told with firm gentleness that she 
must go upstairs, Jonquil rushed behind him and re¬ 
fused to go. Her father told her not to be a foolish child, 
and ordered her to proceed, while Martha stood by 
and muttered to herself. Major Fairfax caught hold of 
her arm, leading her to Martha, and saying that she 
must be taken up immediately. Jonquil protested and 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


247 

kicked him with her bare toes, hurting herself, so that 
she cried, and fought him the more. The father held 
her quite still, at arms’ length, and said in a severe 
voice: 

“Jonquil, you’re making a fool of yourself. I tell 
you that you must go upstairs with Martha, and im¬ 
mediately ! Are you going to do it?” 

“No. No. No. No. No. No., No. No. No. 
Quillie wants Willum. Quillie hates you. Let go of 
Quillie’s arms. You hurt Quillie. Let go, you damn 
swine!” 

Whereupon she was spanked, and screamed the 
more. Martha seized her, and bore her struggling up¬ 
stairs. Major Fairfax said: 

“Childish temper! Mustn’t give way to a child or a 
horse, Maddison, if you care for them. Here you are. 
You go in and get on with it, and I’ll sling you in a 
towel. You’ll find everything in there. Don’t hurry!” 

He opened the door, and William entered at once, 
realizing that his host wished him out of the way. 
Hardly had he taken off his coat when he heard the 
voice of Eveline asking why Jonquil was crying: the 
indistinct reply of her husband: and the sound of her 
leaping upstairs, doubtless to comfort the petulant 
little girl, whose naughtiness had been caused by the 
calamity, to her, of an intense delight suddenly be¬ 
coming an acute pang. 

A long howl, and a scratching at the door, told him 
that Billjohn was on his scent. He opened the door, 
and the spaniel sidled in, talking to his master in faint 
whines and gurgles, not going near him, but gazing 
with lolled tongue. 

“You don’t seem awfully happy, Billjohn,” said 
William. 


248 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Owwow-yeelo,” replied the spaniel. 

“But I threw you out of the taxicab to save you from 
being rattled to bits, Billjohn.” 

“Himhimhim-yeelo,” retorted the spaniel. 

“I'm very clever, but I can’t control destiny, my dog. 
Or rather chance, because they are the same things. 
You think I’m the topmost thing, don’t you? You 
think I’m omnipotent, don’t you?” 

“Imimimimimimimimimimim,” whined Billjohn, 
settling on the coat, trousers, and shirt which the god 
had flung on the floor; and, sighing deeply, he swal¬ 
lowed all the moisture in his mouth, and curled to 
sleep. 

Eveline, clad in a dove-gray kimono, went into the 
bathroom as he was about to pass out, and gave him a 
swift kiss as she passed him. Major Fairfax was able 
to devote extra time to the writing of letters, which 
consisted, so far as William could see, in smoking 
Egyptian cigarettes and reading The Times and The 
Referee. These he dropped beside him, with tobacco 
ash, when William entered, and offered a cigarette. 
Martha brought tea, two cups of which William drank, 
owing to his host preferring whiskey-and-soda. 

“Lord! it is good to be back in England after the 
desert, Maddison, and to take a drink cold instead of 
lukewarm. This whiskey is vile, though. Bad stuff 
since the war. 

He swallowed a tall tumbler of it. 

“Where are you staying?” 

“I haven’t got a place yet, sir.” 

“You’ll have some difficulty, won’t you?” 

“Any small place will suit me.” 

Major Fairfax hesitated, then lit another cigarette 
from the stump of its predecessor, and William felt 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


249 

uncomfortable, thinking that the other would interpret 
his remark to be a hint. But whatever he thought 
nothing was said further, and after a long search in the 
lower town after breakfast he found a drab house at the 
corner of a drab street where he engaged a room for 
seventeen shillings a week, including breakfast. 

For the first two days he had tea in the fiat, and on 
the third day he had lunch, tea and dinner. Thereafter 
he was expected to every meal, Major Fairfax told him. 

“My dear Bill, Lina and I are only too pleased to 
have you. And bring your Mary in whenever you want 
to,” with a kindly, knowing smile. Later, when 
Eveline and William were alone, he asked her why 
Lionel had spoken about Mary Ogilvie. 

“Billy, dear, you are most dense. Naturally I had to 
make up something—to tell a damned lie, in other 
words—to account for your presence here in Findle- 
stone. A woman has to act all her life, and if she 
doesn’t, she is usually downtrodden.” 

“But who would tread you down?” 

“The hungry generations. Men like Julian Warbeck. 
My dear, I was terrified when he called this morning. 
He had a black eye! He never gets drunk like other 
men, or rather he never behaves like other men when 
he is drunk. His face gets flushed, and he talks with 
sonorous bombast. And the pity of it is that he is 
really a very nice boy, and a jolly clever one, too, but 
absolutely wasting himself. But I suppose you wonder 
at our being, or rather having been, friends. My dear, 
Julian used to be with a reserve regiment of cavalry 
stationed near here—at Quorncliffe—and they gave a 
dinner and dance one night. We became friends, with 
the inevitable result. Woe’s me, and woe’s me!” 

They were sitting by the Leas bandstand while the 


250 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

afternoon holiday crowd sauntered by, and hangdog 
men pulled at bathchairs containing wrapped invalids. 

“You see, Billy. I can't help men being attracted by 
me. Julian came along at all hours of the day to see 
me, and I couldn’t very well close the door in his face— 
and he wouldn’t take any hints. I didn’t mind him, 
and Aunt Margy—the one that is so fond of Billjohn— 
was amused by him, and before Lionel came home I 
used to spend most of my time at their house. Neither 
Aunt Margy nor Aunt Milly minded that, as the men 
used to come there.” 

“Yes, I suppose they would.” 

Conversation was made awkward by the Town band 
rendering, with a solo by a precise comet-player, the 
most popular air from The Gondoliers . The conce¬ 
ding chairloungers clapped the performance so enthu¬ 
siastically that an encore was given. Afterwards he 
returned to the subject, which Eveline seemed most 
willing to discuss. 

“Julian began to send me poems, which I thought 
awfully long, but good, and told him so. Later, I dis¬ 
covered that they were by Swinburne—‘Faustine’—and 
bits from ‘The Triumph of Time.’ Then came a shower 
of sonnets and a translation of Catullus which he in¬ 
sisted on reading to poor little me. People began to 
talk, and as he made himself notorious by drinking, I 
had to write and ask him to keep away, with the result 
that you see now. It’s very hard for a woman like my¬ 
self to live, you know, Billy. There are so many pit- 
falls. God alone knows what the populace thinks of 
me, and certainly I don’t care. But I care for the re¬ 
spect of my friends.” 

“Eve.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


“Yes, my darling?” 

“Do you think Lionel knows that I—that we love 
each other?” 

“No, my dear. What makes you ask?” 

“He looks at me sometimes with a funny look. I 
can’t quite make him out. I felt terrified when first I 
met them on the Leas, because they were your people.” 

“I shouldn’t worry. I understand Lionel perfectly. 
My dear, of course he does not suspect anything.” 

“You know, Eve, I feel a vile person, enjoying his 
hospitality, and pretending to be his friend, when in 
Devon we-” 

“But aren’t you his friend? You told me this morn¬ 
ing that you liked him very much.” 

“I do like him.” 

“Then why are you making all this pother?” 

“But don’t you understand?” 

“I think you think too much.” 

“I see.” 

“Now, Billy, don’t be silly. Do you think I’m a 
fool, who can’t understand what you mean? Do you 
think I am quite easy in my mind, all the time? But 
what can we do? I cannot bear the idea of hurting 
anyone, and there is only one way to avoid doing that.” 

“What is that?” 

“By not hurting them.” 

“Yes, I suppose you are right. But, Eve, I am never 
happy, because-” 

“Of course I’m right! Billy, sit forward, there’s a 
youth over there I don’t want to see. Don’t turn 
round.” And when he had gone Eveline said, “You 
remember my telling you about Peter White? He is 
another that strains the web of friendship. A dear 
boy, but weak and foolish.” 




252 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

:j ' “How about William Maddison? Also weak and 
foolish?” 

“He is my heart’s own.” Spoken in a tone that 
thickened the blood already sunwarmed, and the 
thoughts disturbing him were gone. 

“Eve, I wish we were back in Sealion Cove, or on 
the Corpsnout.” 

“So do I.” 

“I would be there for ever with you. That is real 
life, in the wind and the sun. The music they are 
playing now is only the pale ghost of primitive happi¬ 
ness, that has long ceased to be in our civilized state, 
but lain dormant in the inherited part of the mind, to 
emerge one day as music. These people dream when 
they hear music: they would be bored to hear the 
source of it, which is the wind in those dry thistles and 
elderberries and gorse of the Corpsnout, on the hills 
loved of the ancient men, over which burned the stars 
by night, and the sun by day.” 

His voice was rapturous, she stared in delight at his 
eyes. 

“You make me long to rush away to Devon again. 
But that is impossible—yet awhile.” 

“Let’s go on the downs this evening.” 

“My dear, haven’t we promised to have a musical 
evening with the Aunts? Beastly nuisance. We’ll go 
to-morrow. Come and bathe now, dnd then we must 
go home to tea.” 

After dinner all three went to the house of the grand¬ 
father in Radnor Park Gardens. The old short maid 
recognizing William gave him a bright smile, but the 
sight of Billjohn took this off her face. 

“There’ll be ructions,” she prophesied. 

Mrs. Beayne, the elder of Mr. Fairfax’s two daugh- 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 253 

ters, met them in the hall. Her deep voice, rough yet 
musical, greeted them as she came forward. 

“It’s so nice to see you all. And you, too, my poor 
bow-wow”—the voice was now comically nasal— 
“runin’ away from master. Naughty baow-waow! 
P’rhaps it was a lady baow-waow.” Billjohn, with 
wagging tail, was standing with his forefeet in her lap, 
and licking her hand. “And how’s Billjohn’s master? 
Recovered from the shock of meeting Eve’s relatives 
on the Leas?” 

“He’s quite recovered, Aunt Margy. Why, only 
this morning he was saying how nervous he was when 
he saw you, and how he wanted to grow his beard 
again!” 

“My poo-oor boy, how bad you must feel!” 

Inside the drawing room lit by a ragged gasmantle 
old Mr. Fairfax was sitting in an armchair, a skullcap 
on his head. Opposite to him across the fireplace was 
another armchair, and sprawling on a red bandanna 
handkerchief was the cat Tommy. As they entered 
the room the domesticate stretched itself luxuriously, 
opening wide its maw, and turned on its back. But 
made aware of the spaniel’s presence it sat up, glow¬ 
ered, arched its back, and uttered a growling menace. 
Billjohn, tail-wagging, went up to it, was spat upon 
several times, his ears were clawed, and he hid under 
the table. 

“Who let that dog in? Drive it out into the street. 
Don’t let it touch the cat. Here, Tommy, Tommy, 
Tommy, don’t be worried. There now, Tommy is quite 
upset, I know he’ll get indigestion. Milly, go and 
get some milk and soda-mint. Who’s this young 
man?” he enquired, turning to look at William. 


254 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“My poo-oor parent/’ said Mrs. Beayne, with deep 
compassion, “my poo-oor parent/’ 

“How do you do?” beamed Miss Millicent Fairfax 
to William. “I am so glad you could come. And do 
you sing? You must sing. I am so sorry about your 
dog.” Her voice lowered. “Don’t take any notice of 
father. He is so old, Captain Maddison. We must 
be tolerant of grown-ups.” 

He wondered what age she was herself. Miss Fairfax 
was considerably smaller than her married sister, and 
she might have been any age between twenty-five and 
forty, because of a girlish manner entirely unassumed, 
and a girlish gown of peacock blue velvet trimmed 
with white rabbit fur. Frequently she clapped her 
hands with girlish glee, made whooping noises of 
hilarity, and leaned back to laugh unrestrainedly. 
Describing her to William, Eveline had said, “Her 
hair is of a shade between the colours of mahogany 
and chestnut, her lips are red as red ink, and her 
wrinkles are filled with powder, and therefore, ap¬ 
proximately level with its general surface.” The face 
of her sister, Margery Beayne, lacked any aid; the big 
eyes held a look of sadness which gave her with the 
abundant white hair and smooth cheeks a majestic 
dignity. 

“Lionel, tell me at once who this young man is?” 
ordered the old gentleman. 

“Bill Maddison, grandfather.” 

“What’s he doing in Findlestone?” 

“He’s staying with us at present. How’s your gout, 
sir?” ’ 

“Worse, Is he paying anything?” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. But the weather ought to 
do it good,” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


255 

“But it doesn't. Come on, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, 
up, up, dear old Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, up on 
poppa’s knee!” he coaxed, but the cat, eyeing him to 
see if he had anything to give, and finding nothing, 
ignored the invitation. 

“Now, Bill Maddison,” began Mrs. Beayne, sitting 
near him, and smoking a meerchaum pipe, which she 
said was “colouring beautifully.” “Now, my boy, I 
want to hear about your wonderful family of animals. 
The beautiful Eve, on her return from the Garden, 
naughty gel, told us a little about them, and a lot 
about you. Werry embarrassing for a hermit, wasn’t 
it? Oh, werry, werry embarrassing, wasn’t it, Billjohn, 
my handsome baow-waow? Milly, this naughty baow- 
waow has been using henna on his head. Oh, Billjohn, 
you sly little man. Trying to cut out the town dog¬ 
gies? Don’t be too loving, my dear, don’t be too loving, 
or you’ll come to a bad end, like me, won’t he, Eveline 
Fairfax?” 

“Don’t mind Aunt Margy, Billy,” was the laughing 
reply. “She can’t be serious for a moment. But talk 
to her about foxhounds, beagles, bassets, and anything 
that barks and wags a tail, and she will be your pal 
for fife.” 

Mrs. Beayne looked pleased, and continued, “Now, 
don’t put him off me like that, Eveline. Now, Bill 
Maddison, who is looking after your animals in the 
cottage, and why did you leave them?” 

“Well, they’re all gone, Mrs. Beayne.” 

“How werry sad!” 

“I knew I shouldn’t keep them long when I took 
them young.” 

“And won’t you miss them?” 

“Yes.” 


256 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“And why have you come to this hotbed of gaiety?” 

He imagined that Major Fairfax was regarding him 
intently, and was alarmed by the questions to which he 
endeavoured to give some sort of flippant answers. He 
felt a relief when the old gentleman was taken to bed 
on the arm of his daughter Milly, helped upstairs 
by Major Fairfax, and accompanied by the cat. 

Miss Fairfax played the piano on her return, and 
sang two songs, while Aunt Margy sat in her father’s 
chair and sewed together the component parts of a 
camisole cut from a pattern in The Lady. Then 
Eveline sang in her dulcet voice Tosti’s Who? William 
was ravished by its beauty, and glanced at the hus¬ 
band’s face during the song, wondering what he was 
thinking as he gazed at the singer. 

“That’s a werry nice song” said Aunt Margy, look¬ 
ing up at its conclusion, and over the rims of her tor- 
toishell spectacles, “a very touching song. Isn’t it, 
Billjohn, my handsome baow-waow? No. Billjohn, 
you mustn’t lick Auntie’s face. Don’t be too loving, me 
darlint, or you won’t be happy.” 

A dogtail was thumped on the carpet; the quiet- 
sewing resumed. When William was commanded to 
sing something, he at once refused; but they were 
insistent. A long search through a heap of old music 
scores revealed only one song that he knew, so he sang 
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass, gaining confidence 
towards the end. 

“Werry charming, werry charming,” said Mrs. 
Beayne, “wasn’t it, Billyjohn? Now who was Master 
thinking of when he was singing?” 

After selections from the Moonlight Sonata and The 
Yeoman of the Guard, Aunt Milly, clapping her hands, 
suggested a card game called Rummy. 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 257 

“Those dear Tommies used to like it so,” she said 
musingly. “Lina, have you heard from Pat lately? 
He was such a nice boy, wasn’t he? It is so nice in 
these rough times to find a young man of good family 
who has nice manners.” 

“It’s hard to find a man anywhere,” chuckled Mrs. 
Beayne, “even burglars no longer hide under beds.” 

“Margy, you are disgraceful,” reproved her sister. 
“Now don’t light that disgusting pipe again!” 

“The world has made me what I am,” sighed Mrs. 
Beayne. “I was driven to smoking a pipe by my life 
in the tropics with Arthur.” 

“She’s terribly cynical,” said Aunt Milly. “She 
calls Mayfair and Cheltenham the tropics! Don’t 
heed her, Captain Maddison.” # 

“Cynical comes from a Greek word meaning 'dog, 
ventured William, and Eveline said Ear, ear, Artist 
Bill on the classics is hot stuff. Sugar in your coffee, 
Artist Bill?” 

Miss Fairfax returned, after coffee, to the subject 
of young men, and in particular of the nice young 
flying officer who used to come and visit them. 

“Lionel, you should have heard Pat Collyer recite 
'The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God.’ It was 
wonderful, wasn’t it, Lina? He was such a nice boy, 
and so brave. Lina, has he written to you lately ? 

“I had a postcard the other day, from Brighton or 
some such place. He’s a very negligent correspondent. 
Simply said 'cheerio’ on it. Oh, I’m sick of Rummy. 
Let’s play poker.” 

Poker palled, as everyone betted extravagantly, 
with matches. The ragged mantle swung to the snore 
of the gas. He longed to be away from house-liie, 
and after the game went to sit by the open window. 


258 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Across the quiet square came the tinkle of a piano, and 
a street lamp was blinking through the trees/ He 
leaned out on the window sill, among flower-pots, to 
be joined by Miss Fairfax, who began a conversation 
in a low voice. 

“Don’t you love the night, Captain Maddison? I 
do. Look at that lamp over there. And the rustling 
trees. I love lamplight. If only I were a poet, what 
things I would write. Do you know Ernest Dowson’s 
‘Cynara?’ I used to recite that when I was in the 
Glad Eye Concert Party for Entertaining Soldiers. I 
always think of poor Dowson when I see a street lamp, 
why, I don’t know, but I always do. You know it of 
course: 

When the feast is finished, and the lamps expire 

Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine; 

And I am desolate and sick of an old passion, 

Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire.” 

“I always feel when I think of that poem of a poor 
young boy who is going to the dogs. It is so very sad. 

I won’t mention any names, in case you know him, 
but he is in love with someone out of reach, because 
she is married already. Perhaps you can guess who I 
mean, but it wouldn’t be fair to give names away. She 
is very beautiful, and inclined to be foolish, but a very 
good gel, and very straight. She confides in me, you 
see; so I know all her little troubles. We are like two 
gels together—two sisters. Well, the poor boy—he 
isn’t twenty yet—he is such a sweet boy, too—oh, 
awfully sweet and so unspoilt—yes, dear Peter, I wish 
I could be of more help to him—he thinks I don’t know, 
too, you know—well, the boy is in bad hands. He 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 2*9 

associates with low companions. He sometimes drinks 
too much, and he is such a child, and not used to in¬ 
toxicating liquor. This beastly war is to blame—oh, 
if they would hang that wicked old Kaiser, the cause 
of it all! It’s very sad, isn’t it, Captain Maddison, to 
see a young man going to waste, and the spectator 
unable to help him at all?” 

“Yes, it must be disturbing, Miss Fairfax.” 

“It is. You know, so many men lose their heads 
over Lina, It worries her, poor gel. Don’t you think 
that Mary Ogilvie is perfectly lovely, with her small 
head and raven-black hair, and large brown eyes?” 

“I knew her as a tiny child, Miss Fairfax. She was 
always a sweet little soul.” 

“I know. Lina told me all about it. She is such a 
kind gel, and although she is usually quiet, she has a 
very sharp wit! Ah, how I wish I were her age once 
more! Hark at someone playing the Missouri Waltz. 
It haunts me, it brings back memories of the long, 
long, long ago. Doesn’t it to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, what a beautiful night! Look at that tiny 
little twinkling star up there in the sky. It’s like the 
eye of a baby—Jonquil’s eyes twinkled like that when 
she was in long clothes. Such a darling baby—oh, I 
did like nursing her. Lina is such a fortunate gel— 
but I do wish-” 

The sentence was not finished owing to a crash in 
the area below. 

“Oh, dear, there goes one of father’s geranium-pots. 
How very unfortunate!” 

“I am a careless chap,” he apologized. “I was trying 
to see if I could find Spica the Virgin.” 

“My poor unknowing boy,” said Mrs. Beayne, re- 


26 o 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


moving her tortoiseshell spectacles, and giving him a 
look of mournful compassion, “my poo-oor unknowing 
boy, you will search in vain for anyone of that descrip¬ 
tion in Findlestone.” 

“Really, Marjorie, your cynicism is positively banal! 
You make me blush for you!” 

“Present company excepted, my poo-oor sister. I 
was giving our young and unsophisticated friend a 
piece of werry, werry good fact. And don’t blush for 
me, dearie. Save them up for your Ideal.” 

William said, smilingly, “Spica is a star, Mrs. 
Beayne.” 

“And so it should be to one of your years, my child. 
I realized that you were a poetical stargazer. My poor 
sister, I fear, is werry, werry ignorant, and her mind 
is not so white as her cheek. Well, dear people, I’m 
going to bed now.” 

Shortly afterwards the guests left, and Milly whis¬ 
pered at the door that she had so enjoyed her little 
talk. 

“You must come again,” she breathed in his ear. 
“I will get Mary to come, too. Don’t worry over 
Margy’s words. Life has been rough with my beauti¬ 
ful sister, and she has lost all her ideals. What a lovely 
night! Oh, the bright stars! Au revoir, dear people, 
I have so enjoyed your coming.” 

She blew many kisses to them on her hands, and 
twirling round, disappeared into the gloomy house. 

When on the following morning he went to the flat, 
he met Major Fairfax coming down the steps. 

“Can’t stop, Bill. Got to catch the London train. 
After a job. Go up and see Lina. Back to-morrow.” 

He hastened down the road, a brown bag in his hand. 
A window above was flung open, and Eveline looked 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


261 

out, whistling. Her husband turned round, and she 
continued to wave until the lime trees hid him. Then 
looking down, she invited him to come up. 

Jonquil was playing on the floor of the drawing 
room with a few pails, a mop, some brooms, and a 
basin. Eveline was writing at the desk, her back 
turned. 

“\\r_Willum—look, here’s heaven. I’ve got swallow 
angels on these trees, and that’s a big pond. Can 
you hear something?” 

A peculiar noise was coming from the kitchen, as 
Martha sung to herself as she washed up cups and 
plates at the sink. 

“Yes. It’s Martha in the kitchen.” 

“Silly! That’s not Martha. That’s Satan in hell 
growling as he burns up the souls of drunkids an’ 
boozers.” 

He laughed and kissed her, and lay down on the floor 
beside her, stroking her hair. 

“Good morning, Billy. It is so nice that you like 
my daughter. Youth clings to youth, what? I won¬ 
dered if you were going to notice me.” 

“I saw your back. Shall I come across Heaven to 
you?” 

“I am still on the earth. Quillie darling.” 

“Yes, mummie.” 

“Go and build up a little hell for yourself in the 
kitchen, with Martha, will you?” 

“But Quillie wants to stay here with W-Willum.” 

“But mummie wants to talk with W-Willum alone.’ 

“You go to hell instead.” 

“Quillie!” 

“Oh, all right.” 

She gathered up the basin and one of the brooms, 


262 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

and dragged them through the doorway without a 
word. When they were alone he stood behind her 
chair and put his hand on her wrist. 

“Stop writing. I want to speak to you.” 

“Just a minute. I must finish this note. 

“To whom are you writing?” 

“To a friend of mine.” 

“Oh!” 

“Don’t be huffy.” 

“I’m not. I should not have asked.” 

“I’m writing to Pat Collyer.” 

“ ‘The well-bred young gentleman who recites so 
beautifully.’ ” 

“I say, aren’t those relatives of Lionel’s a scream? 
My dear, Aunt Margy alarms me. She hasn’t the 
slightest use for convention herself, and lets everyone 
know it, too. You remember her remark about the 
stocking? Well, just for a rag, I wore a harlequin 
bathing dress on Peace Day. I gave a stocking to 
Naps for bravado when he asked for it, and he tied it 
round the neck of Tubby Lorayne’s bulldog. Aunt 
Margy saw it afterwards, and gave me such a look. 
One had to be very careful with Aunt Margy—she 
knows things by intuition. When she looks at me 
sometimes I do, indeed, feel a lady of uneasy virtue! 
Often when I see her I think—‘There goes Eveline 
Fairfax forty years on.’ ” 

“Oh, no, Eve.” 

“Oh, yes, Billy. You will be whitehaired, too, very 
tall, and distinguished—probably a famous play¬ 
wright; but I hope you will not vapourise yourself too 
much—and I shall make short witty remarks from the 
gallery to you in the stage box. Won’t I, Billjohn? 
Damn, there’s the bell. I wonder who that is?” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 263 

Martha knocked at the door. “If you please, miss, 
Mr. Warbeck wants to see you.” 

“Ask him in, Marty.” 

“May I come in?” enquired a suave voice. “Good 
morning, Eveline. A note in the remembered 
caligraphy appended on the postern invited me to 
walk in.” 

“Hullo, Jay Doubleu. Do you know Captain 
Maddison?” 

Julian Warbeck frowned at William, inspected him 
and stretched out a hand as far as possible. 

“Yes, oh, yes, we know each other. Eveline, may I 
smoke?” 

“Gippies and Virgins on that table. Help yourself.” 

“Thank you,” intoned Warbeck, “a Virgin, I think.” 

He was dressed in a bright brown suit, very tightly 
fitting, bright brown boots, with a high collar, a yellow 
bow tie, and stiff white shirt-cuffs. His reddish hair 
was oiled and brushed back from the high rounded 
forehead. Between the thick lips, in one comer of the 
mouth, he inserted a cigarette, struck a vesta on his 
heel, lit it, and spun the lighted match through the 
open window. 

“May I sit down?” 

“Do.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You won’t mind my finishing my letter, will you?” 

“Can you write while I smoke?” 

“Don’t be an ass, Jay Doubleu.” 

“Thank you.” 

The droll visitor lay back on the soft, and looked 
quickly at William, and away again. Eveline went on 
writing with a quill pen, which scratched audibly. 


264 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Warbeck cleared his throat, sat up, and addressed the 
other man. 

“Well, how do you like Findlestone, Captain Maddi- 
son? Or have you not considered whether you 
like it?” 

“I find it rather an amusing place, Warbeck.” 

“Oh, yes, it is an amusing place. Didn’t I first meet 
you on Peace Day? I’m very vague about it all?’ 

“Yes.” 

“Did I borrow a pound from you?” 

“I believe you did.” 

“Here it is. I am most grateful. Thank you.” 

“Thanks very much.” 

He passed over a Treasury note. 

“Er—Mrs. Fairfax will probably shriek with dersion 
when I ask the question, but have you read Swin¬ 
burne?” 

Eveline laughed, and Warbeck wrinkled his forehead. 
His droll suavity was gone. 

“No, I haven’t, Warbeck.” 

“Oh!” 

He began to gnaw his nails. 

“I’ve read some of Bernard Shaw,” said William. 

“I prefer that lesser writer, Shakespeare,” replied 
Warbeck, satirically. 

“And one book by Wells—Tono Bungay.” 

“Yes, it’s a good book. Yes. Wells has a great 
and earnest mind. A trifle vulgar, perhaps, in his 
uninspired moments—but I hear his wife manages 
to tear up most of the backslanging letters he writes 
to critics in the Press. One day we shall meet and be 
friends.” 

Eveline laughed mockingly again. 

“As for his fraternal friend Bennett, whose Pretty 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


265 

Lady Mrs. Fairfax so adores, well, I should like to meet 
him, too—and borrow one of his motor-cars. I have a 
fur coat already.” 

“Don’t swank,” called out Eveline. 

“Oh, well,” sighed Warbeck, and returned to nails. 

She appeared to be writing a long letter. Tired of 
awaiting her pleasure, William got up and went into 
the kitchen. Jonquil was throwing about the room 
pots and pails, which Martha grumblingly picked up. 

“Why, what are you doing, Quillie?” he asked. 

“She’s a terror, mister. Said that the place was 
hell, so she’s smashing of it up.” 

Martha broke into wheezy laughter. “Dearie me, 
mister, that kid is the funniest thing I ever did see. 
And if it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t stop here, only I 
promised the master when he first went away that I 
would. I could earn more money outside, if I’d a mind 
to. But I don’t like leaving the baby, mister.” 

“Don’t you get on very well with Mrs. Fairfax, 
then?” 

“ ’Tisn’t that, mister. Her and me gets on all right, 
mostly. But I long for the old life.” 

“What, acting?” 

“You are a comic, mister,” she wheezed. “Acting! 
Hir-hir-he! No, I used to be in a laundry. Many a 
gentleman’s shirt I’ve ironed. And washed, too. Not 
a few spotted with wine, either! Too true, they were! 
Like that there Warbeck. He’s a funny fellow, mister.” 

“I know he is. I’ve seen him before.” 

“Used to come in here a lot. Very witty fellow, 
and has always been a perfect gentleman to me, though 
I am only an ugly old servant. But when he’s in booze, 
mister, he’s terrible. Dearie me, you ought to hear 
Miss Milly talking about him. She hates him. 'A 


266 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

nasty fat German pig/ she called him once, and ordered 
him out of the house—not her house, but this house, 
what belongs to my lady.” 

“Do you know someone called Mr. White, Martha?’ 

“Yes, mister, and he’s one I feel very sorry for. 
He’s only been in here once since she came back from 
Devon, and he came to me with tears in his eyes and 
said good-bye. But she never did like him very much. 
Too soppy, she said. But he was always a perfect 
gentleman to me.” 

“Is that Peter White you’re talking about, Martha?” 
asked Quillie, who during the conversation had been 
quietly occupied in building a heaven with swallows, 
out of the ruins of hell. 

“You get on with your own business, lovey, and 
don’t poke your nose into what doesn’t nohow con¬ 
cern you.” 

“Don’t be so rude and silly, Martha. I know it was 
Peter White you meant. Quillie likes Peter White— 
he used to play with her.” 

“Ain’t she cute, mister? Calling ’erself Quillie. 
Come here, lovey, and let old Marty kiss you. She’s 
Marty’s baby, mister. Ain’t you, lovey?” 

“Er-hum. And Willum’s, too.” 

As Willum went across the carpet to the drawing 
room, he heard Warbeck say in tones of submission, 
“It will be everything to me, and so little for you to 
give, old dear. Won’t you?” 

Warbeck glared at him as he entered, sighed loudly, 
and turned away. 

“I’ll let you know, but I can’t promise, Jay 
Doubleu.” 

“Thank you. Will you write to me?” 

“Yes.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 267 

“Thank you. Well, I’ll go now. Have you finished 
my volume of ‘Atalanta in Calydon?’ Shall I take it 
now, or leave it?” He pointed to a book lying on a 
table. 

“I’ve read it, thanks.” 

“What do you think of it? Or don’t you think of 
it at all?” 

“I read it with interest.” 

“Um. Oh, well! Don’t you think the chorus be^ 
ginning f When the hounds of spring are on winter’s 
traces’ great?” 

“Yes. I mean no. Have you written any more 
lately?” 

“Er—what? Oh! No! I’m just a scribbler at 
present. I shan’t be mature for some years. But, 
take a tip, and buy my first editions when they come 
out. Yes, I’ve written a sonnet or two since I saw 
you.—Er—would you care to see them? Oh, damn, I 
haven’t got them with me.” 

“In that case, I’d like to see them. But, first, will 
you throw that yellow tie away?” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Fairfax,” he said, ripping it off and 
throwing it out of the window. “Good-morning.” 
And, shaking hands with William, he went out. 

“Did you notice the old-world courtesy, Billy? Poor 
old Julian—always full of beer and Swinburne, neither 
of which I care very much for—but, then, I’ve got no 
taste. He has asked me, or rather begged me, to dine 
with him one evening next week at Corvano’s restau¬ 
rant. It’s his twenty-first birthday.” 

“Will you go?” 

“No, I don’t think I shall. I’m rather worried about 
Jay Doubleu. He’s got something fine in him, but it 
is covered by silly traits that time, I suppose, will work 


268 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

out of his nature. But that applies to all of us. I 
wish he’d go and do some work.” 

He regarded her with bright eyes and happy face. 

“You know, Lina, I think you’re jolly fine with 
men.” 

“My dear, what makes you say that?” 

“You’re so generous. You see the good in human 
character. You never emphasize the weaker side in 
people you could afford to despise, I suppose, if you 
wanted to.” 

“Silly Billy,” she said, coming to sit by him, “Silly 
Billy, you don’t know me at all. It’s because you have 
a big heart that you say that. I love you more than 
ever. Kiss me, decent man. You haven’t kissed me 
since the Victory Ball.” 

“Eveline, first I must say something-” 

“Oh, very well, don’t, then!” and she went back to 
her writing desk. 

“Mummie, can Quillie go out on the Leas?” 

“Not alone, darling girl. Quillie might get stolen.” 

“Quillie would like that.” 

“Why?” 

“So’s Willum could rescue her.” 

“Precocious huzzy!” cried Eveline, snatching her— 
“hug mummie close. Quillie is mummie’s own daugh¬ 
ter. Kiss mummie, my silkenhair. How mummie 
wishes her own hair were soft like Quillie’s and not 
coarse and thick.” 

“Mummie.” 

“Yes, darling!” 

“Is Jay Doubleu coming again?” 

“I hope not, darling.” 

Silence, while Quillie caressed her mother. Then a 
murmur of “Mummie.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


269 


“What, Sweetheart?” 

“Can W-W-Willum live with us always when daddy 
goes back to—ther—East?” 

“My dear, what a question! I wish he could!” 

“So do I, mummie.” 

“Why do you wish he could, Quillie?” 

Silence again, and gentle breathing; child head 
snuggling closer, bare arms twining tighter, and the 
soft confession, “ ’Cause Quillie loves W-W-Willum.” 

“W-W-Willum,” mocked Eveline, “you are the spit 
of your naughty mummie.” 

The letter was posted, and the three went for a walk 
along the promenade. Jonquil walked between them, 
holding their hands, her pale blue silk pinafore blown 
by the cool sea breezes. The sunhot asphalt burned 
through the thin leather of their shoes. People sitting 
on the seats were interested in them, and sometimes 
smiling remarks were made about the child. They 
walked to the bandstand, and sat down in the front 
row of the deckchairs. Jonquil espied a friend, and 
darted away to play with him—an urchin with a fat 
collie pup. Billjohn rushed after her. The band was 
playing a soothing air. He lay back in the chair and 
with closed eyes yielded to the golden happiness given 
by the sun on his face. He suggested that Eveline 
should do the same, but she preferred, he was told, the 
protection of a wide hat. 

“You liked the sun in Devon.” 

“This is Findlestone, where it isn’t done to take 
off one’s hat.” 

“I thought you were so unconventional.” 

“Dear William, you talk too much.” 

Jonquil returned with the squirming pup in her arms, 
at which the spaniel was playfully leaping, declaring 


270 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

that she wanted five shillings, in order to pay a little 
boy. 

“You can’t have that mongrel. Tell him to take 
it back.” 

“Here, take your mongrel back,” Jonquil ordered 
the grinning urchin, who called the pup and swaggered 
away. 

Their position was such that everyone passing could 
see them. The first friend to come up was a stripling 
in the uniform of a cadet: he passed twice before de¬ 
ciding to go to them. 

“Hullo, Peter,” smiled Eveline. 

He saluted stiffly, and gave William a timid look. 

“Do you know Captain Maddison?” 

“Yes, I’ve met him before. How do you do, sir?” 

William rose and shook hands, saying: 

“Don’t call me 'sir’ again, whatever you do. Lord, 
I’m only twenty-two! Come and sit down.” 

“Thanks awfully.” 

He hesitated for a moment whether to sit beside 
Eveline or William, and sat beside William. 

“Peter, the wind’s so cold on my left side.” 

“Oh, tlianks awfully, Mrs. Fairfax,” said Peter 
White, happily. 

“What have you been doing with yourself, Peter? 
I haven’t seen very much of you, have I?” 

“I only had forty-eight hours’ leave last time, and 1 
meant to write and apologize for not turning up to 
tea. The fact is—I mean to say-” 

“You were blotto, I suppose?” 

“Yes.” 

“Silly child! You know it isn’t good for you-” 

“I suppose I am an awful fool.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


271 

“Not so bad as that, my dear. How long are you 
here for? When did you arrive?” 

“I arrived last night. I’ve got six days-” 

“Sick leave?” 

“Yes,” he grinned, shamedly. 

“Swinging the lead again?” 

He confessed that he had not been so ill as he had 
insisted to the medical officer. 

After an hour with him, William realized from his 
manner that he was in love with Eveline. He felt no 
jealousy, only pity, since Eveline did not love Peter 
White. He liked him very much: the boy had a radiant 
mind. Peter White’s head was boyish and well shaped, 
with a little chin, mobile wide mouth, and snub nose. 
The alert, hazel eyes showed a temperament too sensi¬ 
tive and emotional; it was obvious as they talked that 
Peter was trying to be friends with himself. And at 
tea that afternoon, the invitation for which gave him 
an obvious delight, he discovered that he was passion¬ 
ately fond of wild birds, and of the writings of W. H. 
Hudson. 

“I’ve got most of his books, Captain Maddison. I’ll 
lend them to you. Far Away and Long Ago you will 
love. Miss Ogilvie—you know her, don’t you—has 
got it at present. It’s a most beautiful book. Mrs. 
Fairfax read it, didn’t you, Mrs. Fairfax?” he asked 
eagerly. 

Eveline, sitting on a low stool and talking to Tubby 
Lorayne and Miss Pamment, looked up. “Who’s that 
taking the honourable name of Fairfax in vain? Peter 
White. My dear Peter, only tradespeople are allowed 
to call me ‘Missis Fairfax.’ To the others I am 
Lina.” 



272 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

She looked steadily at him, and he blushed. 

“Now, tell me what you want.” 

He stammered that it was only about a book. 

“I was telling Captain Maddison-” 

“You mean Bill?” 

“Y-yes. I was telling him that you had read a 
book called Far Away and Long Ago. It's wonderful, 
isn't it?” 

“Perfectly splendid, my dear. How about some more 
tea? Will you run and get a jug of hot water? Thanks 
so much.” 

Eagerly he went out with the jug, and while he was 
out of the room she said: “Dear old Peter, he's as 
excitable as a child. Frankly, I didn't read the book, 
and I didn't have the heart to tell him so. Don't ever 
say I told you that, for heaven’s sake.” 

They laughed amusedly. William felt a savage rage, 
when Peter came back he talked to him only, but Peter 
seemed to have lost all heart, as though he had heard 
what she had said. Soon afterwards he left the flat. 

The return of Major Fairfax from London was to be 
made just before dinner, according to a telegram which 
came at noon on the following day. William was 
sitting on a lionskin at her feet, awaiting in silence the 
dread arrival, when a chance remark recalled the inci¬ 
dent of her careless acquiescence. Although he per¬ 
suaded himself that she had said it in order not to 
hurt Peter’s feelings, yet a persistent pain of doubt 
remained. He thought, too, of the incident of the 
time-table and the Scarlet Cranesbill, but dared not 
mention it. Her hand straying through his hair made 
sharper the pain, so that suddenly he knelt at her 
knees and hid his head in her lap. 

“Once you said that love was the only justification 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


273 

of life. I thought that it was dreams. I was wrong. 
Eve, my beautiful one, I should die if I lost you.” 

“Would you, Billy?” 

“I am tortured when I think of your many, many 
friends. Damn those men who treat you with 
familiarity! ” 

“Dearest Billy Tornsox, why so fierce all of a 
sudden?” 

“I can't help it. I must tell you, or die. Why 
should they flaunt your beauty as though you were 
someone other than Eveline Fairfax? Why should 
you write for nearly an hour to a posing little, 
bl—, beastly little nincompoop like that fellow 
Collyer!” 

“Lorlumme, the lad nearly swore! Poor Pat!” 

“Damn Pat!” 

“Jealous little thing.” 

“I'm not jealous.” 

“You are.” 

“No, Eveline, not in the way you mean. I am 
not jealous of you, but jealous for you, for your beauty, 
for your spirit. I would be content to be your watch¬ 
dog—to consider myself a knight, your knight, would 
be an impertinence—to devote my life to guard you. 
You are very precious, Eveline; to me you are, 0, as 
glorious as the sun.” 

“So you are content to guard me, are you?” 

“Forever!” 

“For yourself, you mean! How like a man! Dear 
Lord Tornsox!” 

“No, from others unworthy.” 

“In other words, you want me for yourself. Again 
I say, how like a man!” 


274 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Yes, I do want you, but openly, what is called 
honourably, for your sake, and for-•” 

“Silly old fool, why wrap it up in all that involved 
talk! Still, it’s part of your dream to do that, isn't 
it?” 

“O Eve!” 

“0 Billy!” she mocked, looking at him with brooding 
sweetness in her eyes. He was humble before her, and 
she tilted his chin. “No woman could resist you at 
times. Not even proud little Mary Ogilvie. But you 
haven’t wanted to kiss me when I’ve wanted to kiss 
you, so you shan’t start now.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Eve.” 

“All right. Let me finish. At other times you are 
a bore, and no woman—even Aunt Milly—could stick 
you.” 

He edged away from her, and said in an altered 
voice, “I don’t understand you sometimes.” 

“How like a man!” 

“Eve, I-” 

“You’re a clumsy old thing. Oddmedodd Bill—the 
scarecrow of love! I’ve been waiting for the scare¬ 
crow to come alive, for the vivacious and eager youth 
to step out of the straw and rags of mournful brooding, 
to say one thing—I’ve been waiting to kiss you, and 
you’ve been using as many words as possible, all 
mighty fine, no doubt, but a waste of time. Billy, don’t 
you love me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“Then why not say so?” 1 

“I love you.” 

“You’re a clumsy old fool, little wild boy with the 
brown eyes, but—I—adore—you—for it,” she said, 
and pulled him to her. He hugged her wildly, groan- 




GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


275 

ing as below in the road a boy with evening papers 
shouted his wares. 

“Lionel will be here soon. The London train is 
in.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” he said dully. 

“It’s worse for me, beloved.” 

On hearing his whistle below, she sprang up, tidied 
her hair in the glass, and went outside, pulling-to the 
door. But it did not close, and William heard him say, 

“Well, old girl, it’s been successful. But I may have 
to go off .very soon.” 

“Oh, L-Linky, dear, I hope not,” she said in a low 
voice. 

Through the crack in the door he saw her arms 
round his neck, and the kisses that impulsively she 
gave him. He had a glacial desire to walk out of the 
house, but controlled himself; and almost immediately 
Major Fairfax was in the room, and greeting him 
cordially. 

“Well, Bill. It’s fine to be back.” 

He pulled a new pipe out of his pocket. 

“Awful hot in town. Serious water shortage. I 
got this pipe for you—noticed your own was a bit 
battered. Straight grain-—got several for myself.” 

“Haven’t you got one for little me?” asked Eveline. 

“I haven’t forgotten you. Come into the other 
room, and I’ll show you. Jove, I’m hungry—is dinner 
ready? Stopping, Bill—aren’t you?” 

“Thank you, major.” 

“Good man.” 

He was left alone, with a straight-grained briar pipe 
in his hand. Then, noticing some rug-hair and dust 
on his knees he hurriedly brushed them. In one of 
his socks was a hole. 


276 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Major Fairfax observed this after dinner, and Eve¬ 
line at once ordered him to bring to the flat everything 
of his that needed repairing. The two pairs of socks 
that he brought a few days later were not worth mend¬ 
ing, she declared, and, overcome with compassion for 
the state of his feet, she took him shopping. First she 
called at the Findlestone branch of the London Mer¬ 
cury and Outlook Bank, in order to cash a cheque. The 
manager asked her if she was entering for the Tennis 
Tournament. 

“We confidently expect General Fairfax to pull off 
the men’s singles, you know, Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“Yes, he’s quite good, isn’t he?” 

“I was watching him the other night, playing with 
Miss Pamment. A really brilliant couple. For such a 
little lady the smashes and volleys of Miss Pamment’s 
are really remarkable, don’t you think?” 

“X haven’t seen her playing.” 

“Oh, yes. Awfully hot weather, isn’t it?” 

“I love it, Mr. Walpole.” 

“We poor slaves, you know, Mrs. Fairfax . . .” 

The manager moved away, and Eveline pushed the 
cheque over to the cashier. 

“Let me see my account, will you, please?” 

The notes were flipped and counted, recounted, and 
pushed under the grill. A clerk brought the ledger, 
and she inspected it. The next call was made at a 
woolshop. Major Fairfax, as before, preferred to wait 
outside. William and Eveline went in together. “What 
colour would you like, Billy?” 

“Auburn, for your hair.” 

“My poo-oor boy! as Aunt Margy would say. Car¬ 
roty socks!” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 277 

“Then yellow—the colour of my favourite flowers.” 

“Daffodils?” 

“No; hawkbits—a kind of dandelion.” 

“What funny taste! They’re weeds,” she said 
roguishly. 

“Have you looked at the disk of one? Lovely things 
—small suns.” 

She smiled at the girl who was humbly waiting 
behind the counter. 

“Let me see some heather mixtures, please.” 

She went to get some skeins, and said to William, 
“I, too, love dandelions. But not yellow socks. Be¬ 
sides, Jay Doubleu sometimes wears yellow socks with 
black and red lines. Beastly things. That reminds 
me, why did you pay that tenner into my bank?” 

“What tenner?” 

“You know perfectly well. I think that a mean 
way to treat a gift.” 

“But I was awfully grateful for the loan.” 

“Silly fool! Still, have it your own way.” 

“I’m very grateful.” 

“You look it. That’s what Naps says, T’m very 
grateful.’ ” 

“When’s he coming back?” 

“Naps? The lord only knows. I don’t. He’s gom 
north to the moors. My dear, we shall be eating grouse 
soon. I can tell you, it’s very convenient having such 
aristocratic pals.” 

“It must be. Sorry I’m just a nobody.” 

“You’re not. You’re very big somebody—to me.” 

Eventually she bought needles, and nine two-ounce 
skeins of three different shaded wools, and with the 


278 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

parcel under his arm they went into the brilliant light 
of the street. 

“The infant wanted yellow, Lionel. Awful taste!” 

“No, we mustn’t let him do that.” 

They had ices in ginger beer and meringues at Cor- 
vano’s restaurant, meeting there the aunts Millicent 
and Marjorie. Miss Fairfax was excited about a musi¬ 
cal play to be produced on the following Monday at the 
Pleasure Gardens Theatre. The author, it appeared, 
was the son of the mayor of Findlestone. She had been 
given a box by the young playwright, and invited 
them to share it with her. If successful, and it must 
be, she exclaimed in her enthusiasm, it would in all 
probability be seen in the West End of London. She 
had read some of the lyrics, all written by Beverley 
Bogside, and declared them to be “little gems.” 

“I didn’t think young Beverley had it in him, Lina. 
Especially after the foolish way he behaved over you, 
but, then, I oughtn’t to have reminded you. That’s all 
over, and forgotten, isn’t it?” 

“Will you all dine here with me, first?” invited 
William, and a table was reserved. 

At lunch that day Eveline told her husband that 
Julian Warbeck had invited her to dine at Corvano’s 
on the coming Monday, which was his birthday. She 
said that she had not accepted, as she meant to speak 
to him first. 

“I would rather you didn’t, Lina, old girl. I don’t 
want you to be talked about, m’dear. Besides, I don’t 
think you ought to have anything to do with him 
whatever. He doesn’t live down here, does he?” 

“In London, somewhere, I think.” 

“He ought to get back there, and do some work.” 

“He’s supposed to be a poet.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


279 

“That’s an awfully convenient thing to be. Per¬ 
sonally, I consider that most so-called poets are in¬ 
dolent by nature, and are simply time-wasters.” 

“You’re an old materialist, my dear.” 

“Possibly I am, but, then, I’ve seen more of life than 
you have.” 

“I wonder!” 

“I don’t.” 

“Oh, you’re so terribly old and wise, aren’t you, 
Lionel? Billy and I are young ignoramuses.” 

“Yes, I suppose I do seem terribly old.” 

“My dear, I was only ragging you.” Her hand 
sought his under the table. Lionel went on: 

“But it’s a good thing, I sometimes think, that I am 
old.” 

“You’re not, you silly,” laughed Eveline, and he 
smiled indulgently at her. 

“But do you really think, major,” asked William, 
“that poetry is the child of indolence?” 

“Certainly not, Bill. I meant that I’ve known a 
number of so-called poets—the East is bung full of 
them—and, to be absolutely honest, the majority of 
them are utterly undependable and useless. I have no 
theories about poetry. I’m simply stating facts. 
There are, I know, exceptions—men of clear vision, 
who live blameless lives, and whose achievements are 
magnificent because they themselves are magnificent. 
All a question of curbing, in youth, the desire to let 
things slide. But that’s true of every one of us. All 
character that’s worth a cuss is built up bit by bit. 
That’s the sort of man I care about.” 

“Yes.” 

“Nobody’s faultless. We all make mistakes. Some 
make the same mistakes several times. But they 


280 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

needn’t worry. A time comes when they realize it was 
a mistake, and they don’t do it again. Result—head 
held a little higher, moral fibre toughened a bit. But 
it’s all a question of realizing it for oneself. But you 
don’t want to hear my platitudes. Have another 
cutlet?” 

“No, thank you.” 

“Won’t you really? You haven’t eaten half a meal, 
m’dear fellow. Lina, shovel it on to his plate. Go on, 
Bill, get it down you—you want to fatten up a bit. 
Have another glass of beer?” 

“Thanks.” 

As soon as they were alone Eveline said: 

“At lunch Lionel was referring to me. He ought to 
have been a parson.” 

“I thought he meant me. It was not a pleasant 
thought. Eve, I think I am one of these indolent 
wasters he spoke about. The thought is not 
comforting.” 

“Silly boy! Of course it doesn’t apply to you. Any¬ 
one can tell from your face what you are.” 

He said, “Then the blacker hypocrite I must be.” 

“Don’t worry, Mis’r Meddlesome. It would never 
enable you to get anyone’s fortune.” 

His dinner jacket, for which he had written to his 
home at Rookhurst, arrived two days before he would 
need it for the theatre. It was accompanied by a letter 
from his father. 

Fawley House, 

Rookhurst, 

1 1th August, 1919. 

My dear Willie, 

Your letter was delayed owing to my 

temporary absence from home, and on my return l 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 281 

was most pleased to hear from you. I send the suit 
as requested, together with a pair of pumps and some 
black socks, which (I imagine) will be too small for 
you. The whole suit (which reeks of lavender and 
moth-ball—but that is Biddy's business—blame 
her, not me), I expect, will be too small: it was made , 
you will remember, just before the war. Clothes are 
so very expensive now-a-days, and may I suggest 
that the coat, vest and trousers could be made bigger, 
if you get a tailor to open the seams. I am at pres¬ 
ent wearing a suit that has been turned (my old 
Harris tweed), and Biddy assures me that it looks 
“proper.” Biddy, by the way, is as well as ever, and 
just the same. I have told her how happy and well 
you are, and she is delighted, and begs me to \send 
you her love. 

The Normans (so I am told—but cannot be sure) 
are in Findlestone for the summer. But you may 
have met them. We suffer a good deal from lack of 
rain, but it is a general drought, according to the 
papers. I am expecting your Uncle Richard to stay 
the night here shortly, bicycling on his way down to 
Cornwall. Recently I saw him in town—he looks 
fagged out, poor chap; he had a very arduous time 
during the rear in the Special Constabulary, and was 
blown up by a Zeppelin bomb. Your cousin Phillip, 
it appears, is giving him cause for much worry, owing 
to the resigning of his commission, which as you 
know, was a regular battalion, and for no reason 
whatsoever, apparently. These are unsettling times. 

Everything is much the same, and I live on, not 
quite knowing why. The garden suffers from want 
of rain. We had the Otter Hounds here last week, 
but they did not kill. The rooks have not come back 


282 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

to us; the rifle and machine gun range drove them 
away. They have not yet begun to plant out new 
timber to replace that felled during the war . 
Colonel Tettley asked after you the other day. 
Peggy Temperley is going to be married soon, to 
whom I don't know. Mr. Temperley has bought a 
Ford car. 

The Americans seem to be behaving in a peculiar 
manner, don’t you think?—I mean in regard to 
France and the peace treaty. A great pity, after the 
splendid way they came over last year. As a nation 
they are magnanimous only by impulse—splendidly 
magnanimous, like some of the actions of immature 
youth. Wilson is a great man, but his type should 
never be a statesman, for his realm is higher, and his 
work is to inspire the minds of others when they are 
tranquil, and not concerned with material things like 
government. 

Let me hear, when you have a spare half hour or 
so, how you are getting on. I have not any idea as to 
whether or no you have got a job in Findlestone, or 
how long you have been there. I am glad you have 
got such nice friends, and trust you will retain their 
friendship. That, in my experience, is one of the 
hardest things in the world. 

Crawley must go with this to the post now, so I 
will conclude. Accept my best wishes, my dear 
Willie, from 

Your affec. Father, 

JOHN MADDISON. 

I forward herewith a circular from your old school. 
Apparently they want particulars of your service, 
for the Roll of Honour. It has been here since June, 
but I did not know your address. J. M. 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


283 

Major Fairfax offered to lend William a suit when, 
with laughter, he tried on the coat. And in these bor¬ 
rowed clothes he took his friends to dine, at half past 
seven on the Monday night, to Corvano’s restaurant in 
the High Street of Findlestone. 

They entered through wide swing-doors, which were 
held open by a big flat-footed commissionaire in a choc¬ 
olate and yellow uniform, with gargantuan moustache 
and hands. His local name was The Beetle-Squasher. 
In the lounge dozens of copper-topped tables stood, 
with people sitting at them, drinking beer, wine, spirits 
and coffee served by untidy Neapolitan waiters. Cor- 
vano, a greasy and Italian Jew, lounged with his wife 
behind the bar. The people stared, including Julian 
Warbeck, who was dressed for dinner and reading an 
evening paper. 

When they were seated at their white table in the 
restaurant, a place of mirrors that reflected infinite 
roomfuls of waiters, diners, and red and gilt upholstery, 
Julian Warbeck, with flushed face, went and sat at a 
table laid for two, near them. Of the soup he took a 
single sip, flinging the spoon into the plate and push¬ 
ing it away. He put a cigarette into his mouth, felt for 
matches, frowned, and, rising, went to their table, 
bowing gravely and asking for the loan of a match. 

“Have you such a thing? Thank you. I am com¬ 
pelled to smoke in order to ward off the pangs of 
hunger. That human carrion crow brought me soup 
that had hairs in it. Unlike those on the heads of 
human beings, they were numberless. Your matches, 
sir. Thank you.” 

He bowed, gave a cold look at Eveline, and returned. 

“He’s drunk,” said Mrs. Beayne, “but the poor child 


284 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

makes an effort to hold his liquor werry, werry well. 
And his wit pleases me.” 

His waiter, a misshapen foreigner who bore some re¬ 
semblance to a crow owing to flapping coat tails, black 
eyes, coracoid dose, apparently no mouth, and ab¬ 
solutely no chirr, brought a bottle of champagne and 
took away the soup. Julian, after an ostentatious in¬ 
spection of the fish, groaned audibly that it was 
anaemic cod again, and gave it to a cat that was rub¬ 
bing against his legs. Another bottle of wine was 
brought with the chicken, and at the end of the dinner 
a bottle of brandy. After drinking five glasses of this 
as quickly as possible, he called the waiter and said 
something to him. The waiter hopped over to their 
table, and said that the gentleman would be honoured 
if they would drink his health. William looked at 
Major Fairfax, who asked, “What do you think, 6^1?^ 
William referred to Eveline, who in turn asked Mrs. 
Beayne, receiving in reply, “Why ever not?” 

So five liqueur glassfes were brought, four and a 
quarter of them being filled. After hesitation, Julian 
Warbeck came over to their table and said solemnly: 

“I would rather you did not drink my health. I have 
changed my mind. I have just recollected, with a re¬ 
crudescence of pain and embarrassment, that Miss 
Fairfax, the last time I saw her, ordered me out of her 
father’s house with words of a screaming voice about 
policemen and p— 00 —um,—excuse me—p—prison! 
I care nothing for any of you. I heard the sneering re¬ 
mark of you, sir!”—glaring at William—“and were 
you not so obviously an outsider like your lank cousin 
I would—by god—0, why should I tolerate such in¬ 
solence?” 

He knawed his lips, puckered up his face, clenched 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 285 

his right hand and gave an agonized look towards the 
ceiling. 

“Forgive me, Lina.” 

“I should go home to bed, if I were you, Jay 
Doubleu,” Eveline tried to soothe him. 

“You want to get rid of me. You care for me no 
longer. You think I’m drunk, don’t you—?” facing 
Major Fairfax, “but I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk. 
I’ve known Mrs. Fairfax for six months, nearly—I 
could tell you the very day I met her—and I asked her 
to dine with me this night—my coming of age. But 
that’s nothing to do with anyone—no one cares about 
me. But wait! One day the world will listen to me— 
when I am dead! Oh, forgive me—but I’m not well. 
I have no friends—not even a Watts-Dun ton, to whom 
I can crawl.” 

His voice changed, and, looking straight at Eveline, 
he said brokenly: 

“You, Mrs. Fairfax, for whom I have the deepest 
reverence and respect, you promised to write to me 
about dining with me to-night. I have received no 
such letter. I hoped that you would come at the last 
moment. You came all right—yes, you came. Oh, it’s 
intolerable, intolerable! ” 

Diners at the other tables began to turn and watch 
him. The human carrion-crow hovered near, moving 
about silently. 

“I owe you an apology, Jay Doubleu—and, truth¬ 
fully, I forgot all about it until I saw you here. Please 
accept my apology.” 

“Thank you. Will you drink with me?” 

“Fetch a chair and sit down for a bit, won’t you?” 
invited Major Fairfax. “Have a cigar. We’ve got to 
go shortly—to the theatre.” 


286 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


The chair was brought, and he sat down, while they 
drank his health. Just as William was about to sip, 
Julian protested. 

“I would rather you did not drink my health, you— 
oo, um—excuse me, ladies!—you sneering beast.” 

“My dear Warbeck, I assure you I wasn’t sneering!” 

“You were! By god, I won’t tolerate it. You shall 
not drink my health!” 

“Would you like me to pour it back into the bottle?” 

“What,” roared Julian. “You long, lounging, in¬ 
solent hound! By god, you are all against me. With 
the saliva of your pale tongues you would quench my 
mind-fire! You would drive me back to the gallipots. 
By god, Maddison, you dark devil, don’t you look at me 
any more!” 

“Look here,” said Major Fairfax, rising. “Leave this 
table, or I shall call a constable and have you confined. 
Your brain must be deranged.” 

“Deranged? How dare you, sir?” The voice sank, 
“Yes, you’re right. I am nearly burnt out. Yes, you’re 

right. By god, it’s quite true. 0 well! I—no—I-” 

Tears stopped the words. 

They rose from the table and left him. Miss Fairfax 
was trembling with fear and indignation, and Eveline’s 
face was inscrutable. They waited while the commis¬ 
sionaire beckoned their cab, and William heard Lionel 
say to Eveline, “You see, I was right, m’dear.” 

She made an impatient movement of her shoulders, 
and went towards Mrs. Beayne. Turning round, Wil¬ 
liam saw that the waiter was following Julian, who was 
coming towards them. Corvano intercepted him, and 
they heard Julian say, 

“Put it down to my account.” 

“We keep no books ’ere, sar.” 


GUEST IN THE HOUSE 


287 


“I cannot pay now. To-morrow.” 

“Perhaps you care to leaf a guarantee, sar.” Cor- 
vano touched his wristlet watch. 

“Don’t touch me, you greasy fungus!” 

“I call plizman!” 

“Intolerable insolence! I tell you I will pay 
to-morrow.” 

“What is your name and address?” 

“I will not speak to you. Leave me. I will pay 
to-morrow.” 

Taking his opera hat, a cloak lined with blue silk, 
and a silver-mounted ebony stick, Julian Warbeck 
strode towards the swing door. The restraining hand 
of the proprietor was pushed away. But way to the 
street was barred by The Beetle-Squasher. 

“Just a moment,” begged William, going back to the 
restaurant. He went to Corvano, and said that he 
would pay the bill. 

“Forgive me, Warbeck, but had I known that it was 
your birthday, and that you were expecting—I mean, 
that you were going to be alone, I would have asked 
you to join our table. I know how rotten and miser¬ 
able it feels to be alone.” 

“Thank you. I can see that you are one of those 
men whose faces grow grey with their own pitiful 
breath! The world of men and women will conquer 
you, Maddison, and when it is too late the Garden of 
Proserpine will be closed against you. Ah, I am so 
weary. You’re a chivalrous fellow, Maddison, I will 
remember you.” 

William went back to the cab. Nothing was said to 
him about Julian, but as they were going to their box, 
Eveline whispered that he was a dear. 


CHAPTER VII 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT, AND THE 
DEPARTURE OF JULIAN WARBECK 

They occupied the lowest box on the right hand side 
of the theatre; a very superior lady attendant showed 
them into their seats. Miss Fairfax sat nearest the 
stage: by turning round in her seat she could see almost 
the whole house; William sat next to her, a big box of 
chocolates on the lap of his intensely-creased trousers; 
Eveline, who apparently found interest in the people 
who sat in the stalls, was between Mrs. Beayne and her 
husband, politely attentive to the remarks that he 
made. After a while he spoke not at all, and sat back 
in his corner, hidden to all except those people in the 
front rows. 

They watched the stalls that were nearly filled with 
men and women. The orchestra was tuning up; the 
conductor, who also played the piano in the middle of 
the space alluded to as the trenches by many successive 
comedians, was vamping softly to himself; the celloists 
were producing deep grumbles from their instruments; 
the fiddlers sending little plaintive sighs into the mur¬ 
muring audience. 

Mr. “Jimmy” Skinner, lessee and part-owner of the 
Pleasure Gardens Theatre, regarded the house through 
a monocle from the further entrance to the stalls. A 

288 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 289 

silk hat was thrust far back on his great rugged head, 
while a glittering fob hung from his chalkwhite waist¬ 
coat. He pulled at a long black cigar, and as he sent 
wreaths of smoke over the stalls he inspected methodic¬ 
ally all the women. A tall young man appeared at his 
side, a young man with a conspicuous mop of yellow 
hair which flopped over a tall and narrow forehead. 
Miss Fairfax told William that he was Mr. Beverley 
Bogside, the author of What Next, Dearie f the revue 
they were about to behold. 

“Such a genius/' she told him, “such a witty and 
paradoxical talker. I wonder where he gets it from. 
For his father isn't a bit like that." 

They watched the tall Mr. Beverley Bogside lighting 
a cigarette, puffing furiously at it, and grinding it under 
his foot. On a balled handkerchief he wiped the palms 
of his hands, thrust back spasmodically the yellow mop 
of hair, and disappeared. 

“There's Miss Pamment with her mother," ex¬ 
claimed Miss Fairfax, “just coming in. How absolutely 
ripping they look. Oh, to have money to buy nice 
things! How do you do?" she inclined her head, “and 
Sir John Lorayne. How graceful he is! How do you 
do! Just a typical sailor, isn't he?" 

No one seemed to have heard her comments. 

“And there's the famous artist. Oh, to be able to 
paint! And there's Sir Rudolph Cardew, the veteran 
actor, who is eighty this year. Isn't he lovely? How 
do you do, Sir Rudolph! There's Mary Ogilvie with 
her young cousin. Isn't she sweet, Billy—but I 
shouldn’t have called you that, should I? And yet— 
Captain Maddison is so formal. May I call you 
Billy?" 

“I wish you would, Miss Fairfax." 


290 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Don't call me Miss Fairfax, please, Billy! Every¬ 
one calls me Milly. Won’t you?” 

“I would love to—Milly.” 

“That sounds so much nicer.” 

“And may Aunt Margy call you Billy?” said Mrs. 
Beayne in her deep voice. “Don’t worry, I shan’t ask 
you to kiss me next.” 

“I shall do that without asking, Aunt Margy.” 

“Here, you two!” laughed Miss Fairfax. “I feel 
quite gay. Drinking that man’s health has affected 
me.” 

“I must keep an eye on you, my poor girl,” said her 
sister. 

The overture commenced, and the audience sat back 
and settled down in their seats. Once the overture was 
really going, Mr. Coutham-Platts abandoned the piano 
and waved his arms with an easy, familiar movement 
that seemed to entrance Miss Fairfax. A red light 
shone for an instant beside, the conductor, a buzzer 
sounded its note of warning, and at the click of his 
baton on the illumined music-frame before him the 
orchestra suddenly subsided. An anxious pause, while 
he gazed round with uplifted arms; another tap, the 
lights in the theatre sank; with a sigh of indrawn 
breath the audience settled further into their plush 
seats as the haunting refrain of the chief song of the 
revue, Your eyes tell me a story, dearie, throbbed 
rhythmically to the roof. 

The curtain swayed upwards, revealing a company 
of actors and actresses, and nearly synchronizing with 
a burst of song, the words of which were unintelligible 
to the listeners, but occasionally the terms cocktail, 
jazzy-lad, sporty boy, became distinguishable, and re¬ 
vealed that the play was not going to be like Hamlet. 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 291 

In the middle of the opening chorus the ladies on the 
stage, clad in summer gowns and wide hats, turned and 
embraced the gentlemen in evening dress who stood so 
woodenly at the back against the swaying scenery, who 
gallantly raised their hats made so shiny by the aid of 
glycerine, all at the same moment, and wandered off 
into the wings, leaving the protagonists together in the 
centre of the stage. 

From this point the plot unfolded itself with atten¬ 
tion to detail and variety; the latter provided by an 
American gentleman in oversize evening attire who 
entered, with a grin at the audience, calling the hotel 
“some cocktail store.” His entrance was only effected 
after great difficulty, for the door was of the kind that 
revolves, and he appeared to be unacquainted with its 
principle, and ran round and round at such a rate as to 
evoke roars of laughter from the audience, which ter¬ 
minated in a furore of applause as he was flung in, 
turning several somersaults the while, and landing at 
the feet of the hero and the heroine murmuring to¬ 
gether and quite unconscious of what had happened. 
After an inspection of the lady’s hosiery from the floor, 
he astonished her affectionate friend by kissing her, 
after which he again turned to the audience and licked 
his lips. Asked his name and business, he replied that 
he was a demobilized major-general in search of a job, 
and, on being referred to the manager, was about to 
disappear in search of that official when it so chanced 
that the official in question entered, a dessicated man 
with a bald head and a feather duster in his hand. The 
ex-major-general made several witty and paradoxical 
remarks to the manager, and raised his ire by appro¬ 
priating the duster and asking him if he could be of 
any service to him; adding that his training in the 


292 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

army had developed initiative, resource and personal¬ 
ity, although he realized that otherwise his qualifica¬ 
tions for the part of boot-boy or waiter were practically 
negligible. On his retirement with the manager— 
whom for some reason he addressed as Bo—in search 
of livery, the protagonists, who had been making re¬ 
marks about love, broke into a crooning lullaby which 
was taken up by the audience when the entire chorus, 
entering from everywhere at once, and in curious steps, 
trooped on to the stage and pointed playful but accus¬ 
ing fingers at the lovers. The chorus finished, they 
went away with similar dancing steps, and the play 
took a tragic turn when an old gentleman with flowing 
side-whiskers made a tempestuous entrance in search 
of Claribel his daughter, who began to sob on a sofa in 
a far corner while her lover fit a cigarette and tossed 
the match among the orchestra. Her father gave her 
a week to decide whether she would marry a gentleman 
who wandered on later, a debauched and decrepit sim¬ 
pleton, a scion of noble family, or, refusing to wed him, 
she would be turned adrift with no prospect of inherit¬ 
ing his hundred million dollars made out of his pork- 
and-beans during the war. Claribel his daughter 
scorned the money made out of pork-and-beans during 
the war, and threw herself into the arms of her penni¬ 
less lover, a thing which drew forth congratulations 
from the not-to-be-deceived onlookers. 

After a series of remarkable coincidences, in which 
it was revealed to the marvelling audience that the 
poor suitor was a real peer and a detective as well, and 
that the Honourable William Rinkle-Wyse-Whistle 
(the decrepit scion) was in reality the leader of a 
notorious band of cut-purses journeying round the 
world to various hotels, followed too late by the detec- 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 293 

tive, the curtain descended on the first act, accom¬ 
panied by much noise from the orchestra, and those in 
the cheaper seats of the theatre made a rush to get beer 
before the refreshment bar closed. Sir Rudolph Cardew, 
the veteran actor, was observed to make a distinguished 
exit from the stalls, taking his famous hat with him. 
He returned no more. 

Just before the commencement of the second act, Mr. 
Coutham-Platts—the conductor’s name, according to 
the programme—resuming his seat, was greeted with 
cheers by the hoboes in the seats up by the ceiling. One 
man flung the remains of an orange he had been chew¬ 
ing, but it missed Mr. Coutham-Platts and disappeared 
down the mouth of the hautboy, causing irritable re¬ 
marks from the pursey fellow who blew it during the 
performance. 

The scene changed to a market square in China. 
The music was conventionally oriental. The play com¬ 
menced with all the players grouped together on the 
stage; Chinese ladies in a semi-circle, the principals in 
front—including the millionaire of pork-and-beans, 
who had apparently forgiven his daughter, at least 
during the opening chorus—and the same sunburned 
gentlemen behind in the same evening dress and shiny 
hats, and all singing in manly voices the words of a nos¬ 
talgic song that was destined to become most popular. 

I want to tease my little pixie 
That I’ve left down in Dixie, 

I want to kiss her bright blue eyes, 

And win her for a prize! 

She’s 

The cutest, 

The neatest, 


294 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


The sweetest, 

The most dinky 
Peach Tve known! 

So when my wild oats are sown 
I think I’ll toddle home, 

And 

Tease my 
Very homely, 

Very lonely, 

Very comely, 

One-and-only 

Pixie. 

The audience roared their applause when this won¬ 
derful lyric had been sung for the third encore; but 
someone, possibly a dissatisfied or a drunken soldier in 
the gallery, threw some halfpennies on the stage, which 
the ex-major-general, now a Chinese waiter with long 
flapping boots, a pigtail with a telephone receiver tied 
to it, and the imprint of a white hand-mark on the seat 
of his pants, picked up and asked Who's given me an¬ 
other gratuity f which occasioned much clapping from 
the hoboes in the seats near the ceiling: one being so 
carried away that he shouted out, “Write to John Bull 
about it,” which suggestion was cheered by the riff-raff 
on the uncomfortable wooden forms beside him. 

Next came the song of the evening—the song to 
whose tune half London and New York were to dance 
the following winter— Your Eyes Tell Me a Story, 
Dearie, sung in unison by the detective-peer—whose 
identity was as yet unknown by any except the audi¬ 
ence—and the daughter of the millionaire. 

“It is very beautiful,” whispered Miss Fairfax, “very 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 295 

beautiful and haunting. What a beautiful tenor voice 
that man has! What’s his name?” She glanced at 
William’s programme. “Aubrey de la Hay—what a 
handsome fellow!” The tenor began the chorus again, 
solo this time: 

For your eyes tell me a story, Dearie, 

A story as old as the waves of the sea: 

The words are as wise 
As the light of the skies, 

Which your eyes have made bluer for me. 

etc. 

She looked at Eveline, who was leaning slightly for¬ 
ward. William looked with her, casually, looked away; 
back again. How sweet was her profile, and how the 
reflected light from the footlights made mystery of her 
dark eyes and eager lips. Never could man possess 
beauty, whether of flower or woman: always it would 
elude, its spirit would mock. In the contemplation of 
her face he did not hear what Miss Fairfax was saying. 
She sat next to the stage, watching him. No one 
coughed or moved in the theatre during the song. The 
audience was rapt, entirely quiet. William leaned back 
in his chair, swaying, his left hand on the back ot 
Eveline’s chair, steadying himself. Miss Fairfax, made 
emotional by the music, wondered why his face, which 
could be so alight with joy, was now so sad. But, she 
remembered, all poets were sad. She was speculating 
upon the cause of his sadness when she noticed that 
the face of Mary Ogilvie was turned in their direction; 
the girl was sitting only a few yards away. She was 
dressed in a gown of pale pink, and Miss Fairfax 


296 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

realized that the oblique gaze of the beautiful eyes, so 
liquid and dark, was solely for the young man who was 
staring as though bewitched at her niece. 

On the stage the last words of the last verse were 
floating in a golden cadence down to the listeners. 

Toil and Sorrow 
Will not borrow 
Love and laughter 
Ever after 
From my life. 

If I have you, dear, 

To bill and coo, dear, 

You'll never rue, dear, 

When you're my wife. 

Her own heart beating faster, since the sentiment 
had been for herself, Miss Fairfax took her eyes off Mr. 
Aubrey de la Hay, the singer, and started. For she 
distinctly saw her niece with a swift turn of her head 
kissing over her shoulder the hand of William as it 
rested on the back of her chair. Immediately after¬ 
wards Eveline caught her glance, and smiled. 

“I was so carried away by the song that I couldn’t 
help it,” Eveline leaned across and softly said. “If it 
had been old Archie Dodder I would have done it. 
Milly, what a lovely voice-” 

Again the chorus, a repeated duet, and then a storm 
of clapping ended the scene and the lights went up. 
She glanced quickly at William, puzzled, for he seemed 
indifferent to the kiss on his hand. Lina has shocked 
him, she thought. 

The next scene was laid at a desert oasis, with palm 
trees, camels, sand, at evening. Apparently the band 



A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 297 

of cut-throats had just left. The detective-earl and 
Claribel in Arab dress sat by a fire, eating dates. Far¬ 
away in the background sounded the muezzin call to 
prayer, a faint voice crying, Allah is great, Allah is God, 
there is no god but Allah. “And he lives down our 
Alley!” sang a voice from the gallery. Cries of “Hush! 
S-s-sh!” An evening star appeared simultaneously 
with a crescent moon. Wailfully sighed the violins, 
and the man began to sing a song called Love a-dying, 
and the words of it so pleased Miss Fairfax with their 
tragic truth that afterwards she said they might have 
been written by Ernest Dowson. 

“There’s no love when passion’s fled,” 

You said; and shook your lovely head; 

“For love, I’m sure, is wonder-giving, 
Reason-drowning—and we’re but living.” 

The wind once wandered 0 ’ the sea 
A-sighing down the golden corn, 

And whispered to the soul 0 ’ me 

That you were she—so love was bom. 

Homeward through the wheat we walked; 

As we went you laughed and talked 
About the jazz—your dress—and yet 
You wondered why my eyes were wet. 

It was, to judge by the applause, not very successful. 
Towards the end of the scene they observed that Julian 
Warbeck had entered the box opposite, and was stand¬ 
ing behind the huge form of Mr. “Jimmy” Skinner, 
who, with the mayor, the author, and two ladies, was 
sitting there. Miss Fairfax made an exclamation of 


298 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

astonishment, since during the former scene she had 
prophesied that by now he was lying in the gutter. 
The audience was left in apprehension for the lovers 
just before the curtain dropped, as with wild yells a 
band of Arabs rushed forward and captured them. 

Apparently some sort of release was effected while 
the stage hands were rolling properties about behind 
the curtain, for the next scene was at Monte Carlo. 
Obviously meant to be drugged and in the state known 
as not himself, the hero was seen to be gambling 
heavily, and heard to be muttering several times Curse 
muh luck. A sirenic beauty with red hair made love to 
him and offered him wine as the croupier raked in 
shovelfuls of notes and gold. At last, ruined and reel¬ 
ing with stupor and misery, he was left alone, groan¬ 
ing. A veiled figure entered. Immediately after a cry 
of Darling and several kisses he recovered sufficiently 
to take his part in a duet, the effect of which was 
marred by the noise of voices in argument; and Julian 
Warbeck was seen violently to leave Mr. Beverley Bog- 
side's box. 

A comic interlude before the curtain, and then the 
audience was treated to Paris by night, with a students’ 
rag at Montmartre, accompanied by airs that seemed 
always trying to be like La Boheme. Afterwards Miss 
Fairfax said: 

“Oh, how I would love to go to* Paris, to that jolly 
bohemian quarter. Lina, can’t we go together on a 
Cook’s tour when Li—oh!” 

She put her hand to her mouth, and confided later 
to William that she really oughtn’t to have suggested 
it when Lionel had been home only a short time. She 
talked vivaciously with him until the play began again, 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 299 

when its reel and rush in exotic setting and gorgeous 
display absorbed her enthralled attention. 

The final scene showed the Earl of Chewington 
married to Claribel, thus coming into his own and, 
supposedly, a good share of the hundred million dol¬ 
lars. With the aristocratic fervour of stage convention 
he announced that the ancestral pile need not be sold 
after all. Pork-and-beans was quite happy; he mar¬ 
ried his first sweetheart, a widow dragged on to the 
stage for the finale . The ex-major-general married the 
cook, who likewise sprang from nowhere. All the 
bronzed young gentlemen in evening dress—they were 
always in evening dress, so well-bred were they— 
managed to find each one of them the lady of his heart 
in the fashionable throng upon the stage. Everyone 
sang, everyone was happy. The principals took many 
calls, alone, and holding hands. William noticed that 
the hero smiled twice, with a flash of white teeth, at 
Eveline, and a feeling of terror came to him. 

“We must wait and hear the Author speak,” thrilled 
Miss Fairfax. 

Mr. Beverley Bogside soon appeared, nervously 
smoothing his flaxen hair. When there was silence he 
said: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am glad you like my little 
effort. (Cheers.) You must not forget my father, Sir 
George Bogside, whose patronage made it possible for 
it to be produced. ( Cheers , a little laughter, and a 
common voice—‘Cut it out!’) I must take this oppor¬ 
tunity of refuting some objectionable things said about 
myself and the University of which I have the honour 
to be an undergraduate. ( The same common voice — 
‘Go hon!’) it has been said that the 'Varsities are be- 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


300 

coming effete. My answer is that a new spirit is show¬ 
ing itself there. The days of Sinister Street are dead. 
But Sinister Street will never die! (‘It will only fade 
away,’ chanted a half drunken man in the gallery.) 
Oxford is no longer the Oxford of classic tradition. 
(‘By god, no I muttered another voice, like Julian War- 
beck’s.) I wish that gentleman would wait to make 
his remarks till I’ve finished. Look here, sir will you 
come on the stage? (No answer—and laughter.) 
Well, as I was saying, I have tried to give a little clean 
pleasure. The future of the drama, I believe, lies in a 
different direction to the old. We’ve been too dreary 
and serious hitherto. Why should the highest form of 
art be tragedy? Why not give joy a chance? What? 
I don’t believe in plays like Ibsen’s Doll’s House, or 
Shaw’s unpleasant plagiarised verbosities. The func¬ 
tion of the theatre is to amuse, not to bore and weary 
and adapt the dithyrambic twaddle of mouldy philoso¬ 
phers. We’ve had enough of sombreness during the 
war—and now we’re going to be merry and bright. 
That’s the real way to help God. Once more I say, 
ladies and gentlemen of Findlestone, thank you for 
your kind appreciation.” 

He was cheered and clapped for over a minute, and 
lit a cigarette to show his self-possession. 

“He’ll be famous,” declared Miss Fairfax. “Oh, 
what a genius! And what a blow he struck at Bernard 
Shaw! And he’s quite right, too! It is the new spir¬ 
itual awakening of youth we’ve read so much about. 
We have suffered enough in the war, and we want 
happy things now. Don’t we, Billie?” 

Yes, he nodded. 

“Well, did you enjoy it, Bill?” asked Lionel quietly. 

“Yes, thank you very much,” he said. 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 301 

“There, I knew you would!” cried Miss Fairfax 
happily. 

The two men looked at each other. 

Eve had bubbled with joy and laughter at what she 
called the delicious absurdities of the show, vowing 
that the author had written with his tongue in his 
cheek. Major Fairfax had at times looked a little 
weary; at other times a little amused. William’s mind 
had been like a bird beating its wings against the 
theatre roof, desiring escape to the quiet stars that 
flickered in the wind on the downs. He thought of the 
summer night, of Eve with him, holding his hand, 
while in the dusk ring plovers called tu-lip tulip by the 
marge of the sea. Almost morose, thought Miss Fair¬ 
fax, as he followed them down the red-carpeted cor¬ 
ridor to the lounge, unspeaking; but her quick 
romantic sympathy contradicted, as he dashed forward 
to hold open the swing door and smiled at her as she 
passed. 

Outside the theatre, underneath an arc-lamp that 
showed the stark whiteness of his shirtfront, stood 
Julian Warbeck, his cloak thrown over his left shoulder. 
Seeing them, he took a long pull at the cigar he had 
recently lighted, and dropped it on the pavement, 
respiring solemnly in its direction a length of smoke. 
Then he swept off his hat, and took three strides to¬ 
wards them. 

“Forgive my intrusion, but I want to apologize. 
Major Fairfax, sir, have I your permission to speak a 
moment with Mrs. Fairfax?” 

“What do you want, Jay Doubleu?” demanded 
Eveline, in tones of quiet finality. 

“I am going away to-morrow by the early train.” 

As he made this announcement he looked unflinch- 


302 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

ingly at her eyes, and drew in through his nose an 
audible breath. Eveline said: 

“I am very glad to hear it. W-what are you going 
to do?” 

Her voice with its deep-throat stammer, with its 
subtle inflexion of an impersonal caress, seemed to 
agitate him inwardly, for a frown as of pain creased his 
wide forehead. He looked on the ground, making with 
his shoulder a slight gesture of despair, and in a voice 
of controlled roughness he said, 

"I realized many things to-night. I realized that I 
had been a fool. I am still a fool, but nevertheless I 
am going away.” 

"I wish you l-luck.” 

“Thank you. I am going up to Oxford.” 

He looked as though he expected her to show sur¬ 
prise and joy. In a calm voice she said, 

“Write to me and tell me how you get on. Remem¬ 
ber, I believe in you, Jay Doubleu.” 

“You are very good.” He stopped, bit his lip, then 
went on: “Yes, you are good. I shall not easily forget 
your kindness to a friendless man. By—no, I shall not 
easily forget you. That insolent and debonair world¬ 
ling Beverley Bogside is up at Oxford—at the House. 
His pernicious influence taints the air of the Corn and 
the High, once breathed by—well, you will laugh, but I 
don’t care—by the Master! By Swinburne! He had 
the insolence to tell me that he was composing an opera 
about Oxford! By god, he shall not foul the Master’s 
Alma Mater with his filthy foul jingle tunes.” 

“Come, Lina,” murmured Lionel. “Warbeck, we 
must go now. Good luck!” 

“Thank you.” 


A 1919 THEATRICAL ENTERTAINMENT 303 

“Good-bye, Jay Doubleu, and good 1-luck! Mind 
you're not sent down!" 

“All men of vision are sent down from Oxford." 

He gave a piteous look at Eveline as she turned 
away. William saw his eyes wet with tears, and went 
forward to shake him by the hand. The last sight he 
had of him as he walked in the direction of home was 
striding into darkness beyond the artificial light. 

At the corner of The Paragon they bade good-night 
to the aunts: William said that he would see them 
safely to their house although they protested that it 
was not necessary. Eveline whispered to him, “Come 
back after," and he moved off with the aunts. At the 
gate he shyly kissed them both, and returned. Up the 
stone steps he leapt to turn the handle and to find that 
the door was locked. He waited a minute, two min¬ 
utes, then went away in the direction of the Leas. It 
was after two o'clock when he let himself into his lodg¬ 
ing down in the lower part of the town, watched by a 
policeman whose tread was silent. He found Billjohn 
couched on his pyjamas, beating his tail furiously. 


CHAPTER VIII 


EVELINE AND MARY 

Thenceforward every evening after leaving the flat 
he used to sit by the sea which gave absolution to the 
repressed miseries that became active with the sinking 
of the sun. He longed for the hour before midnight, 
when he might be shriven by the priestlike dark of the 
shore. No one was told of these wanderings, but Lionel 
noticed the change come over him. His gaze was 
usually abstract, and seldom did he look for more than 
an instant at either of them when they were together. 
Eveline being alone with him for a brief while would 
ask him why he was so strange; and when he said 
nothing she would say tenderly that he must not pine 
because she simulated affection for Lionel, whom she 
could not bear to hurt, as he was so kind and con¬ 
siderate to her. 

“Listen. When you are with us, dearest, I feel an 
affection for him that is a genuine fondness; but when 
he and I are by ourselves, I feel that I cannot tolerate 
his presence. If I am sitting quietly meditating, he 
will ask me if anything is the matter, and when I say 
that I was just thinking, he wonders what it is. You 
see, the male spirit always tracking me to my most 
secret and remote retreats, where is only room for my¬ 
self! Even the happiest lovers have solitary tracts of 
the spirit to walk alone. But he doesn’t understand 
that.” 


304 


EVELINE AND MARY 


305 

“He loves you, Eve. I know he does. I’ve watched 
him.” 

“In his own way, I suppose he does. I wish that he 
did not.” 

“I suppose you wish that about me?” 

“Now what makes you ask such a silly and unneces¬ 
sary question?” 

It was cool in her high drawing-room, with the wide- 
flung window and pale lemon curtains lazily wafted 
and filled by the sea wind. He was restless when Lionel 
joined them, and went up to Jonquil’s night nursery in 
the attic, climbing into blinding sunlight through the 
window on to the leaded roof that scorched where 
hands and body touched. They heard him moving 
above, and Lionel, taking another cigarette from the 
silver box he had won at polo, and tapping it on his 
broad thumb-nail, said to Eveline who was busily 
knitting, 

“Bill’s an extraordinary fellow, but an awful good 
one—the best type, a little too sensitive, perhaps, for 
the hurlyburly of this life of ordinary mortals. A case 
of late development, I should imagine. Isn’t it Shaw 
who said that the highest creatures take the longest to 
mature, and are the most helpless in their immaturity? 
He has such a curious air of being unaffected by ex¬ 
perience which for a fellow who has been through a 
public school and nearly five years of war is remark¬ 
able. And at eighteen years he was fighting on Galli¬ 
poli—a boy still—too young to stand the shock of war. 
He was telling me the other day about his boyhood, 
and his friendship for a fellow who was killed, and, 
d’you know, m’dear, I was profoundly moved by seeing 
the wistful joy in his face at those simple memories. 
He might have been sixteen, and relating the exploits 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


306 

to his guv’nor—how they built a hut on an island, 
noosed pike in the lake, made fires in a spinney, and got 
rooks’ eggs in half-a-gale. Jove, old girl, it must be fine 
to have sons, and to watch them growing up. . . . 
How about going on the hills this afternoon? The 
breeze will be great up there. Let’s ask young Mary, 
for Bill. By Jove, yes, of course. We ought to have 
had her round here more. Why didn’t you think of it 
before?” 

“Well, she’s such pals with the Normans, isn’t she, 
and you know why they hate me, just because I 


“I know, m’dear, but you mustn’t worry about peo¬ 
ple who don’t understand and who don’t matter in the 
slightest. They are simply snobs—but all of us are 
snobs in one way or another.” 

“You are a dear,” she murmured, kissing 
him impulsively. “I’ll ask Mary for the after¬ 
noon.” 

Jonquil went with them. The broad Roman road 
curving at the base of the encampment, that had been 
beaten by the feet and chariots of the cohorts which 
had made it and outlasted the artillery tractors, the 
lorries, and the troops twenty centuries afterwards, 
was brown with dead weeds and grasses. William as 
they walked slowly along it thought of the grass that 
had been growing in humbleness throughout those cen¬ 
turies, while men had wrought and made their bitter 
wars, and perished. Mary walked silently at his side, 
and asked a question that, it so happened, had a direct 
bearing on his thoughts. 

“If there was another war, would you fight again, 
Willie?” 

“I suppose so.” 



EVELINE AND MARY 


307 

“But you said the other day that you were a con¬ 
scientious objector.” 

“I do say silly things—often, I'm afraid. I say them 
sarcastically to smug people, in a fury at their apathy 
and blindness—it's wrong, I know. Still, I am a con¬ 
scientious objector, but rather than that women and 
children should be murdered, I would willingly murder 
my own beliefs.” 

“That is true courage.” 

“Oh, no. You see I don't care whether I live or die.” 
At this moment he had not the strength of his vision 
to uphold him, and was acutely conscious of loneliness 
and lovelessness. 

Eveline and Lionel were walking behind them, and a 
long way in front Jonquil was hopping about like a 
fairy with Billjohn prancing around her. 

“You oughtn't to say that, Willie.” 

“It's true.” 

“Things will come all right, Willie, if you do not 
allow yourself to be turned aside from your true 
self.” 

“I suppose that means you think that because I'm 
always with Eveline that I am like those other men. 
Mary, I thought you were a bit different from the 
herd.” She did not show how he had hurt her, but said 
simply, 

“Your friends that care for you and take the trouble 
to understand you know that you aren't really like 
those other men—or like some of them, for not all are 
evil.” 

“I've got nobody who really cares about me.” 

Mary looked as though she were going to say some¬ 
thing in her quick eager way, but the thought wavered 
in hesitation, and was not expressed. With almost a 


3 o8 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

birdlike stillness she walked on the brown grass by his 
side, her tread quiet and even, except when the iron- 
tipped heels struck upon a stone. A touch on his arm, 
and he was to look at Jonquil, who was rolling in her 
white silk frock with the dog upon the grass. Mary 
said excitedly, 

“She is a darling child. It must be beautiful to have 
a daughter like that—you are responsible for her, and 
yet she is no part of yourself, but a separate breathing 
being that is all her own.” 

“Jonquil, stop rolling on the grass, you dirty child,” 
sharply called Eveline, some way behind them. 
William winced. 

“Oh, all right,” said Jonquil, getting up and running 
on till she and Billjohn were as small as a white butter¬ 
fly and its cast brown chrysallis. 

They went up by the same track he had climbed in 
the night. Half way to the top they sat down, declar¬ 
ing that they could go no further. The sun high in the 
south-western sky was like a blistering splash of quick¬ 
silver aroll in a crucible of blue porcelain. Mary moved 
aside with her finger the grasses, peering for shells and 
flowers. She found a hawkbit that with spread disk 
was drinking colour from the sky, and Eveline told her 
that it was Bill’s favourite flower. 

“Put it in his buttonhole, my dear.” 

Mary did not pick it, but continued to touch its 
toothed petals gently with her forefinger. 

“They are most beautiful flowers, Mrs. Fairfax, when 
you look into them. I haven’t the heart to break the 
little fellow from its earnest root.” 

“Here you are then, Billy,” said Eveline, picking one 
and tossing it across to him, “Here’s one that isn’t quite 


EVELINE AND MARY 309 

so earnest as Mary's little fellow. He says he would 
like to be worn in your buttonhole.” 

“Thanks very much/' said William, feeling such a 
happiness that he sprang up and ran to Jonquil, who 
was picking all the flowers she could find. 

“W-W-Willum!” 

“Er—hum?” he mimicked. 

“Quillie trodded on a bumble bee and killed it. 
Look!” 

“Oh, Quillie, what will the poor bee-babies do?” 

“Well, you see, Willum, it bit Quillie.” 

“But bees don't bite, Quillie. They sting.” 

“Er—hum. But this one bit Quillie, and nearly 
stang her, too, making Quillie dam well fed up with it. 
Let's climb to the top and you be a English soldier, 
and I’ll be a Bore.” 

“You’ll never be that, my dear.” 

“Only in pretending, I mean. I’ll shoot you.” 

“Oh, I see. You mean a Boer. It's too hot.” 

“Yes, it is, isn't it, Willum?” 

“Yes, my darling.” 

They sat down on the strawlike grass. Jonquil snug¬ 
gled close to him. Because she was so like a miniature 
Eveline, because she was lovely and feminine and ap¬ 
pealing, he put his arm round her, while love surged 
in his heart, not like a turbid stream, but like the wind 
which bore the glistening thistleseeds in the shining 
air. 

“W-W-Willum!” 

“Yes, my sweet.” 

“Will you marry Quillie when she grows up?” 

“If you like.” 

“You do love Quillie, don't you?” 


310 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Very much.” 

“Better’n Mary?” 

“Er-hum.” 

“Honest to God?” 

“Hush, Quillie! Yes, really.” 

“Then will you give Bilijohn to Quillie?” 

“But he’s already given to Mummie.” 

“Er-hum. I know r . But Mummie said to father 
that she—that she didn’t want Bilijohn, not really, 
only she said she did so’s not to hurt you.” 

“Look at that lovely butterfly over there, Quillie.” 

“Isn’t it beautiful. Don’t let’s kill it, shall us?” 

“Oh, no.” 

The clouded blue settled on a scabious head, opening 
and closing its azure wings for joy of the sun. It was 
cool on the hillside where the wind stroked the harsh 
bents and drove up into scarlet flight the soldier-flies 
that dwelled in the grassy wilderness. Below them 
brown cattle were grazing as they moved along their 
chalky paths. A swift shadow glided over the grass; 
looking up they saw a hawk veering across the windy 
uptrend. Mary saw it, too, for she called, “Willie!” 
and pointed. Upwards they climbed. 

On the earthworks the wind came like the spirit of 
water, cool and boisterous, rushing by unseen, pouring 
over Csesar’s Camp. Mary trod on the swarded ram¬ 
parts, leaning against the airtide which moulded the 
light garments against her slim body. William leapt 
up beside her, drawing a deep draught into his lungs, 
and breathing out slowly with an exquisite content. 
Afar the glittering sea stretched into summer mist that 
hid the French coastline. Steamers like dark smoulder¬ 
ing hayseeds approached and passed with infinite slow¬ 
ness to east and west. Findlestone sprawled at the 


EVELINE AND MARY 


3ii 

edge, a heap of soiled and crushed bricks that in places 
flickered silvery flashes where from skylights and win¬ 
dows the sunlight glanced. 

“I often come here,” said Mary, “and listen to the 
wind music. Everything makes a different noise—the 
broad grassbents and the tussocks, the thistles, the car¬ 
lines, and even the short rootlets on the turf. And I’m 
certain I’ve heard a harebell ringing.” 

“Quillie has, too.” 

Mary had not known that the child was behind them. 
Jonquil lay on her chest in the fosse, swinging her legs 
and biting at grass. Mary realized that he was not 
listening to what she said. Lionel and Eveline were 
climbing to the summit a hundred yards away; he was 
staring at them. The wind lifted his hair; the colours 
of the schooltie he wore were dull and drab. Billjohn 
lay panting in the shade behind them. A hawk shadow 
cut across them; a rising lark stopped singing, and 
dashed to the ground. Turning suddenly to her, he 
said with bitterness in his voice, 

“You see, nothing is allowed to remain happy for 
long.” 

She looked at him, hesitated several times, lost a 
little colour in her cheeks, then said quickly, while her. 
brown eyes seemed to grow larger and to take to them¬ 
selves a soft auburn glow, “I’ve often felt that T wanted 
to come between you and the things that would steal 
your happiness.” 

He looked away from her. 

Jonquil began to hum and sing, and they listened to 
her song about a bee that was killed by a cruel little 
devil. 

“Aren’t I, Willum?” 

“What?” 


312 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“A cruel little devil.” 

‘Til whip ee, my maid!” 

“Quillie wouldn’t cry. But sorry she sweared,” she 
said gravely. 

"You dear thing.” 

“But Quillie killed a bee dead.” 

“Well, it’s gone to heaven now.” Aside to Mary he 
said, “The conventional remark!” 

“Has it? I hope it won’t sting God,” said Jonquil. 

Mary, who had been sitting still, nervously touching 
the grass, suddenly laughed. “I know it’s very wrong, 
but I can’t help laughing.” 

“But why should it be wrong, Mary? Do you be¬ 
lieve in God?” 

She nodded. The colour had returned to her face. 

“I’m afraid I don’t. Hope I haven’t shocked you. 
But I believe in man.” 

“Dead or living?” 

“Alive, of course.” 

“What’s the difference between a dead man and a 
living one?” 

“Something you can’t see—his spirit.” 

“Some call that a part of God, Willie.” 

“And do you think that God loves us?” 

“ When we love, that is God.” 

He shook his head. “Mary, I thought no more of 
God in man when I had fought in France. Once I 
bayonetted a German in a trench raid who w r as un¬ 
armed. I just killed him. A poor little undersized 
Saxon, about eighteen, I suppose. He was in a dug- 
out, reading. He lifted his white hands in funk when 
he saw me. I took the book back as a souvenir. 
Poems of Keats—translated into German. I got the 
Military Cross for that raid, which was, owing to the 


EVELINE AND MARY 


313 

feeble troops against us, particularly successful. God 
in man.” 

“Yes, speaking now.” 

She took his hand and held it. Her face lost its wind- 
colour again. She was terribly in earnest, and spoke 
rapidly. He saw her eyes soften, become wild and 
brooding, soften again. 

“Don’t you believe in evolution, Willie?” 

“Yes.” 

“Towards perfection?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Towards the godhead, Willie?” 

“How about birds and animals?” 

“And you ask that who have heard a nightingale 
singing!” 

“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Each species is given its 
means of protection and livelihood.” 

“Man has risen out of the ruck. He can help God by 
his brains, by helping himself. Oh, Willie, if only you 
would believe! The world must have leaders. It is 
like a lost child crying out for its mother. Love—the 
mother-heart, Willie. Oh, think of Abraham Lincoln 
—he had more of God in him than most men, and think 
of the great good he did. Perhaps you wonder why I 
talk like this to you. I had a dear friend, a poet, who 
died in the war. I nursed him in hospital. To hear 
that man talk! I felt I must take off my shoes—the 
ward by his bed was holy ground. And he who hated 
war went back, almost a cripple, because he wanted to 
be with the men of his company, and was killed cross¬ 
ing the St. Quentin canal. His body is gone, but not 
his soul, or perhaps I should say that which spoke 
through him. It changes, like Shelley’s cloud, but it 


3 H THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

cannot die. Though the sun flames out, it cannot die. 
It is God, Willie.” 

Even in the vivid sunlight a soft sweet fire seemed 
to illumine her face and throat. Her black hair, her 
dark eyes, her shrinking maiden gentleness combined 
with the sudden feminine beauty, gave him a curious 
feeling, and he could only turn sideways, as though 
heedless of her, and touch with his finger tips the 
empty shell of a banded hillsnail. 

“I know these things, but I cannot put them into 
form. Only a man can do that, Willie. Sometimes I 
think that the sexes are not so unevenly made as it 
would seem. The woman bears the child, when she has 
taken to herself the seed, and perhaps it is for the male 
to fashion the spirit in the physical frame. Women 
make men dream, and the woman wants the dream for 
herself, because she is the high priest of the life-to-be- 
formed. All things shape themselves for this.” 

“You have a wonderful spirit, Mary,” he said 
humbly. 

“I wouldn’t talk to any other man but you, lest I 
be misunderstood.” She spoke with fear in her voice, 
and seemed to shrink again. 

“Poor bee, quite dead, never see his babies, poor bee, 
Quillie killed you, la, la, yes, she did,” sang the child, 
far away and happy in her sundreams, waving legs thin 
as the grasshoppers that chirripsed while waiting for 
love and the evening dewdrops. 

They sat and watched her, Mary with the dark 
brooding in her eyes, William with ecstasy strange and 
wild as never felt before. 

“I will live only for mankind,” he muttered, and get- 
ing up he sat by Quillie, taking her in his arms and 
kissing her several times. She lay inert, with serious 


EVELINE AND MARY 


315 

eyes, and to his surprise she cried, struggled free and 
ran from them round the fosse. 

He climbed to the summit and stood beside the flag- 
post, looking down at the fields in which the corn was 
being cut. Tiny horses were drawing the reaping ma¬ 
chines, tiny men propping the sheaves into stooks; 
there was the faint rattle of the machines and some¬ 
times the tiny pop of a gun, and the coursing of dogs. 
Mary sat where he had left her. The black patch of 
the bonfire he had made on the night of July the nine¬ 
teenth had been disturbed only by wind, which had 
winnowed the ash and left charcoal and charred ends 
on the baked earth. A scattered flock of rooks and 
jackdaws passed over the hill, cawing and goistering. 
To the left the line of downs dipped into a valley grown 
with oaks, and a mile beyond on the slope a chalk 
quarry had been carved. Patches of gorse grew on,the 
downs, sheep were straying, there was a scent of thyme 
in the air, and always the burring of bees. 

Mary got up and climbed to him, sometimes 
slipping, but scrambling to her feet again. She did not 
look at him. Together they ran down the reverse slope 
into the fosse, seeing the others standing by some 
gipsies on the road behind the encampment. A bay 
horse unclipped and ungroomed was hobbled near, and 
cropping the grass. Lurcher dogs approached in 
silence, pointing at Billjohn, who pranced about and 
told the god of the dangerous objects. Three brown 
barefooted children ran forward and begged for cop¬ 
pers, padding at their elbow. A fire smoked under the 
hedge, a cooking-pot by it, and fresh skins of rabbits 
were drying in the sun. A baby wrapped in a sack 
slept beside the wheel of an old unpainted caravan. 
Two young men sat under the hedge, straws in their 


316 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

mouths, and a white-haired crone squatted in shade 
on the caravan steps, smoking a black clay pipe. They 
took no notice of the newcomers, and the lurchers did 
not growl, but sniffed with casual intentness at the 
excited Billjohn. 

Jonquil stood by her father, listening to a brown 
young gipsy woman telling her mother’s fortune. 
Smilingly Eveline sat on the ground, her hand in the 
gipsy’s rough lap. 

“Yes, my good lady,” she was saying, “you will be 
very happy, but sorrow will come, and like a thunder- 
storm in summer. Your best friend will fail you, but 
you will find strength, my good lady, great strength, 
my pretty one, in one who is always faithful. But 
your heart will carry you through, my pretty one. Do 
not give it too quickly to strangers, my lady. You will 
see many stars, and some will fail; but keep a brave 
heart, my pretty lady. Won’t you let me cross your 
palm with more silver, my lady, for the good fortune 
that a true Chal has told you. Very hard to live, my 
good lady, and we can make no baskets of green grasses, 
my good lady, because they are all dead. Bless you, 
my good lady, for your heart is kind.” 

“I did hope you would say something about a dark, 
sardonic lord, and danger,” said Eveline. “Didn’t you, 
Lionel, what? Hullo, Billy. Wherever have you been? 
Let her tell yours.” 

“Won’t you have yours done first, Mary?” 

She shook her head quickly. “No, you have yours 
told.” 

“Only half a crown, my lady. I can see you have a 
good fortune, my lady. I can see it in your face, my 
good lady. But let me tell you of that nice gentleman 
that I know you’re thinking of. Only half-a-crowm 


EVELINE AND MARY 


317 

my lady. Two shillings. I am a true Chal, and am 
as old and wise as the earth. The stars speak to me at 
night. Come, my lady, only two shillings.” 

Mary looked appealingly at William, and her lips 
framed the whisper: “Let her tell yours, Willie.” 

He gave the gipsy half-a-crown, and she took his 
hand upon her weather-stained lap. 

“You have much before you, my gentleman. You 
must never lose hope, my gentleman. Many women 
will want to follow you, but only one is true, my gentle¬ 
man. Beware of sweet laughter, my gentleman, and 
do not always obey your heart. You have a journey, 
my gentleman, a long long journey, but your feet will 
not falter. You draw life from the stars, my gentle¬ 
man. Many secrets will be told you, and you will cross 
water, but you must not turn back, for water to you is 
as treacherous as a snake in a bird’s nest, my gentle¬ 
man. You have a lady who loves you, my gentleman, 
and you love her, and will not look at others, 
my gentleman. Bless you, my gentleman, for you 
have a kind heart. Now, my lady, let me tell your 
fortune.” 

But Mary shook her head and smilingly said “No.” 

“Quillie, let the lady tell yours,” suggested Eveline. 

“No. Quillie don’t like her,” declared Jonquil, get¬ 
ting behind Mary. 

The baby in the sack awoke, and began to cry. 
Jonquil went and stared at it. 

“What an ugly baby,” was her opinion. 

The mother of it, the fortune-teller, picked it up and 
retired to the shade of the caravan, on the steps of 
which she sat, unfastening her bodice and putting the 
wailing infant to her breast. Jonquil looked at her 
with intense eagerness, but said nothing, and walked 


318 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

seriously behind them to a hollow where they decided 
to have tea. 

While he prepared a fireplace of flints, and she spread 
the cloth, the others went off to get wood. She did not 
speak, and after a minute he asked her what was the 
matter. 

“Nothing, Billy. Why ever should there be any¬ 
thing the matter ?” 

“You didn’t speak to me.” 

“I didn’t like to interrupt your thoughts. Once— 
once you used to share them with me, but now you 
never tell me anything. But, my dear, I do not want 
you to do anything against your wishes. I want you to 
be happy. That butter will run to grease in the sun, 
I’m afraid.” 

China mugs were laid in a row, and the vacuum flask 
containing milk taken out of the basket, A pot of 
guava jelly followed, with cakes and a paper spill of the 
china tea. 

“Eve, I can’t—I can’t—I mean, Lionel . . .” 

“Of course, you can’t, my dear Billy. But you need 
not be so callous at times. 0,1 know you suffer, I have 
eyes, my dear. You are not the only one, remember. 
There are three of us—possibly four. I hope no one 
takes sugar, for Martha hasn’t put any in the basket. 
Billy darling, you do love me still, don’t you?” 

She looked tenderly at him, and he muttered “Yes.” 

“Do not fret, my dear. Things will arrange them¬ 
selves for those who are faithful and true. I suppose 
if anyone heard me speaking like this, they would say 
I was a low hypocrite. Perhaps I am, but I do suffer, 
Billy. I am not always kind to Lionel, and I reproach 
myself for it, but I do try to be decent. I have no love 
for him, only affection.” 


EVELINE AND MARY 


319 

“What would he say if I told him that we loved each 
other?” 

“Billy, you aren’t going to do that, are you?” 

“Don’t feel alarmed,” he replied, forcing a playful 
note into his misery. “I wouldn’t be so treacherous!” 

“You are unkind,” she lamented, “and you know 
w r ell how to w-wound those who are fond of you. My 
dear, if I went away with you, I should only be a drag. 
You are as wild as one of those swifts above us. And, 
Billy, you will hate me for saying it, but if we did take 
the final step, we could 1-love, but could we live? You 
told me you had only your army gratuity. And that 
won’t last for ever, will it?” 

“No,” he sighed. 

“Whereas at present you should try and think of 
others a little. Don’t be hurt, old boy—it’s bad friend¬ 
ship that doesn’t help by telling the truth about things 
like that. God knows, I’m selfish enough myself.” 

“You are most generous.” 

“There’s Mary with some sticks. Isn’t she a ripping 
girl? The only woman in Findlestone that I would 
really trust. Perhaps Milly—but Milly, poor old dear, 
wouldn’t understand.” 

“You aren’t going to tell Mary about Devon, 
surely?” 

“What do you think? I tell no one.” 

He stuck four short sticks into the ground and built 
up within the flint wall a small hut of the thinnest 
twigs. Inside he put a sprig of dry furze. Around and 
over the hut were placed sticks, like a wigwam. Every¬ 
thing was done most carefully, and the process watched 
excitedly by Jonquil, amusedly by her father, eagerly 
by Mary. Eveline sat apart and said, “Hurry up with 
that there prize fire, Will, my lad.” 


320 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“I must arrange the stones exactly right, or most of 
the calorific energy will be lost.” 

“Damn your calorific energy. I want some tea to 
quench my terrific thirst. Blast the smoke.” 

“Lina, remember the child,” reproved Major 
Fairfax. 

“I know worse than that,” his daughter informed 
him. 

“Don’t you let me hear you, or I will have to punish 
you, Quillie.” 

“No, all right.” 

William put more sticks on the fire. Immediately 
the furze crackled, smoke made him cough, and the 
flames bit the sticks. The kettle was put on. When it 
began to sing, Jonquil claimed that she knew what it 
was saying. 

“Tell me,” said her father. 

“There’s a droppo water inside that—that’s lost 
itself, and is running round hollering for its ma.” 

“It’s what?” 

“Hollering for its ma. It’s lost, silly. Martha and 
Quillie once found a lost little boy, and I gave him a 
sweet, and Martha said, 'He’s hollering for his ma, 
lovey.’ See, don’t you?” 

“I don’t like your language very much; it’s 
hardly that for a lady to know, Quillie.” 

“Martha isn’t a lady—she’s a old woman instead. 
And she says 'Thank gord for it!’ She does really, 
Father—you needn’t look so unbelieving at Quillie. 
Don’t she, Mummie?” appealed an unhappy Jonquil. 

“Yes, my darling, of course she does. Mummie will 
have to speak to Martha about it, but Quillie isn’t 
naughty at all for saying it. It ’s perfectly natural. 
She’s mother very own darling. No one shall hurt 


EVELINE AND MARY 321 

Quillie—she shall grow up as free as a wild bird. 
Mother will not let her white little soul of childhood 
be warped by restraint into what is called a woman 
of the world like herself. What else is the kettle say¬ 
ing, 1-little Quillie?” 

“Quillie can’t hear any more,” she said, almost 
tearfully. 

“I can hear a dog growling inside,” Mary told her. 

The child forgot her misery, and put her ear near the 
kettle, so that the auburn locks fell away from her 
ears fragile as burnet roses. 

“Quillie can, too. And a 1-little swallow. And a 
starling. And—and a old man selling be-nanas and 
choklicks on the beach. And—and a noise like M-M- 
Martha singing a song as she brushes Quillie’s hair and 
says ‘Old still, lovey. Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave 
you, though it breaks my ’art to go.’ Like the soldiers 
of the Queen singed when they went to catch that 
■wicked old Kruger, who ate babies!” 

Major Fairfax lay back and shouted with laughter, 
a thing William had not seen him do before. 

“Quillie, your father is amazed by you. I never 
thought you had it in you.” 

“You never play with Quillie.” 

“Father’s been away fighting all the time, hasn’t 
he, Quillie?” said Eveline. “Mind, Mummie’s darling, 
or you’ll be scalded!” 

The kettle tunes lost themselves in a soft rumble, 
and William emptied the spill of tea into the water. 
They sat round the spread cloth, feeding a stern¬ 
swinging Billjohn with tit-bits. Afterwards they ex¬ 
plored the encampment, Lionel and William together, 
and the others at a distance. 

“I’ve chucked smoking till after the tournament,” 


322 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


said Lionel, as William filled his old pipe from an oil¬ 
skin pouch. “You’ll come and watch us, won’t you?” 

“Rather. I like watching your partner play. She’s 
so full of life, and it’s a joy to watch anyone like that.” 

“I know what you mean. Here, light your pipe 
inside my coat, out of the wind. Bill, I notice you 
stick to your old love very faithfully.” 

The matchbox was dropped. William knelt down 
to recover it, and struck another match kneeling down. 

“What do you mean?” his voice said from the 
ground. 

“I haven’t seen you smoke that pipe I gave you yet.” 

They went down the hill to the three girls. The wild 
kestrel soaring above them uttered its wistful cry; in 
the tussocks the free grasshoppers sang to the sun. 


CHAPTER IX 


A LITTLE DINNER PARTY 

He changed into the borrowed suit that evening, since 
Eveline was giving a small dinner party, to which the 
Pamments, Sir John Lorayne, a doctor from the Quorn- 
cliffe barracks, Mary Ogilvie and a cavalry subaltern 
named Mr. Tollemache were invited. Afterwards the 
aunts came over from Radnor Park Gardens for coffee 
and liqueurs, and the evening was a vivacious one for 
everyone except William, who sat by an open window. 
The room was filled with a soft light from the shaded 
lamps, the evening air was cool, the modulated murmur 
of voices rose with the mist of Egyptian cigarettes. 
Above the stack of the house across the way a large 
star was shining, sometimes dulled by invisible smoke 
from a chimney pot. Mary was asked to play the 
piano, the Missouri Waltz being requested. She played 
it, and then some of the airs of What Next, Deariet 
Tubby Lorayne began to dance with his betrothed; 
William watched the star. When the music stopped 
he looked across the room at her, and met the full gaze 
of her eyes. 

“Will you play some Debussy?” he asked. 

“Yes, rather,” she said, “if they want me to.” 

“Do, please,” came a polite chorus of assent. 

She played the Sunken Cathedral, then an Hunga¬ 
rian dance; after which they said, “Don’t stop, please,” 
323 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


3H 

Major Fairfax saying, “If only I could play like that! 
Mary, you’re a genius, m’dear.” 

“What shall I play?” she said quickly, with timid 
glance, nervously. 

“Oh, any old thing,” said Eveline, glancing wickedly 
at Lionel. 

“Remember this, Willie?” Mary looked across the 
room to him, and began to play Eleanore. He went 
nearer to the window, so that he might see more of 
the sky. The melody was broken in the middle, and 
the preludian trills of Hymn to the Sun sent his mind 
wandering far from the life of streets and houses. At 
its conclusion they said that it was jolly nice. 

“It’s like the Taw estuary at night,” said Mary, 
coming across the room to sit beside William. “When 
there is a frost, you can hear the feeding flocks of 
curlew and golden plover calling in the darkness. It’s 
like a thousand golden bubbles rising out of the water.” 

“Golden plover are simply toppin’ on toast, Mary,” 
remarked Mr. Tollemache, who had been glancing at 
William almost contemptuously. “Come back and do 
some rags, what, Mrs. Fairfax?” and their hostess 
laughed. 

Mary played them. Friendliness brooded in the 
warm shaded light of the room. William took no part 
in the conversation. Mrs. Pamment was talking to 
Mrs. Beayne and to Major Fairfax about her eldest 
son, his Captain’s “doggy” in a battleship in the Bos¬ 
phorus. Sir John Lorayne and Miss Pamment were 
sitting side by side in a deep couch talking in intimate 
and subdued tones. Miss Fairfax was preparing herself 
to make a recitation; Mr. Tollemache, the tall youth 
with china-blue eyes and blond shiny hair who had 
been dressed as a rajah at the Victory Ball, was talking 


A LITTLE DINNER PARTY 325 

to Eveline about some runs he had recently had with 
the Devon and Somerset Staghounds. 

“You ought to come down, Mrs. F., you ought really. 
You’d get some simply toppin’ runs. We killed a 
twelve-pointer the other day out of Homer Wood. 
I tell you, it beats fox-catchin’ hollow. Only you need 
two gee-gees for each run.” 

William looked out of the window at Spica Virginis 
which now seemed to be resting on the rim of the 
chimney pot. Miss Fairfax recited; gave an encore, 
sat down again, looking hot. People passed in the 
street below, their laughter and voices audible in the 
air of the summer night. Upon the pot edge quivered 
the point of light, until it dipped beyond and was lost. 

The handle of the door was turned, and they heard 
Martha’s voice saying, “You come out of there, lovey.” 

The door opened, and Jonquil’s head peeped round. 

“W-W-Willum!” 

“Quillie, you naughty girl, go back to bed this in¬ 
stant!” said her mother in tones of surprised pleasure. 

“Quillie wants Willum a minute. Come on, 
Willum.” 

She came into the room, in her flannel sleeping suit, 
barefooted. All the women petted her, especially Mrs. 
Beayne, while Martha grinned happily at the door, 
and said “She would come, miss.” 

He went upstairs with her, led by the hand. She 
sat on a chair. “Willum, can you hear anything?” 

He listened. 

“Only the sea.” 

“Yes, but what else?” 

“Your feet on the rung on the chair.” 

“Silly! Look over there! Can’t you hear it crying?” 

She pointed to a piece of sacking lying by the grate. 


3 2 6 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Why, of course. It’s a baby. Where did you 
get it?” 

“It’s Quillie’s. Quillie had it after supper. The 
doctor brought it to Quillie in a black bag. It's now 
crying something awful. Isn’t it, Willum?” 

“No.” 

“It is.” 

“It isn’t,” 

“Oh, Willum, do pretend!” 

“I can hear it now. You must get it into bed and 
keep it warm, or it will die. Good-night.” 

“W-W-Willum, don’t go, or if you do, I shan’t let 
you be its father any more. But if you stay, I will let 
you be the father of all my other dolls, and my teddy, 
which was borned before I met you, but I will say you 
are their daddy.” 

“Right-ho, my faithful spouse. Now I must go 
down, and you must go to sleep with your baby, or it 
will die.” 

“Yes, Willum.” 

She took a sort of rabbit from the sacking, and leapt 
into bed, holding it to her heart. 

“It’s stopped crying, hasn’t it, Willum? I say, do 
you think that baby the gipsy had was stolen?” 

“It might have been.” 

“It looked a gentleman’s baby, didn’t it?” 

She tugged him down, giving him several kisses. 

“ ’Night, Quillie.” 

“ ’Night, Willum.” 

He went downstairs. Mary was sitting on a hassock 
near the window, looking out at the night. Her small 
head was resting on her hands. Eveline gave him a 
swift tender look, which eased not his suffering heart. 
Mr. Tollemache was seated beside her at the piano, 


A LITTLE DINNER PARTY 327 

performing with her a musical exercise known as 
“chop-sticks.” 

“I say, Mrs. F.,” he said, “you’ve got a simply toppin’ 
idea of rhythm, really you have.” 

William spoke to Mrs. Pamment and to Lionel; Mrs. 
Pamment made room for him beside her, asking him 
to tell her about his cottage. She was kind and her 
manner sympathetic. He told her about the otter cub 
and the seagull, forcing himself to talk lightly. But 
all the time he listened to Eve’s voice, and heard what 
it was saying so vivaciously to Mr. Tollemache. He 
spoke ramblingly, tightened his mind; faltered, flushed. 
In an embarrassing silence the voice of Mr. Tollemache 
was heard saying, “Well, if I can get the motor-boat 
you’ll come? It will be simply toppin’, Lina.” He 
had called her by this name a minute previously. 

“Rather, Jerry, I’ll come,” replied Eveline. 

“My sister has a place near you in Devon,” said 
Mrs. Pamment to William. “You must go and see her 
when you return to your romantic castle.” 

“Yes, I will, thank you,” he replied, while unnoticed 
on a stool Mary was watching his face, hands under 
her chin, her eyes dark and patient, as if suffering. 


CHAPTER X 


heavier Burden- 

Major Fairfax and Muriel Pamment were knocked 
out in the final of the tennis tournament for which 
they had practised so hard, and when with his wife 
and daughter and guest he got back to the flat Martha 
met them at the door with a telegram. 

“1 didn’t bring it to the ground, mister, as I knew 
you’d be busy playing. It come soon after you’d 
gone.” 

He tore open the orange envelope and spread the 
flimsy sheet, then handed it in silence to his wife and 
looked at William with a composed smile. 

“My dear,” said Eveline in a low voice, pressing his 
arm, “how utterly miserable!” 

“Don’t worry, old girl. I expected it, you know. 
I’ve been lucky to have had so long. Marching orders, 
Bill!” 

“When for, Lionel?” 

“Says forthwith, but that means twenty-four hours’ 
grace. I shall have to go on Monday morning 
Damn!” 

“I’m coming with you,” declared Eveline, “that is, 
if you’d take me as your groom or batman. Now if I 
were to dress up in uniform and cut off my hair, no 
one would know the difference.” 

“Wouldn’t they? You’ll hear from me, darling, if 
you cut off your lovely hair!” 

328 


HEAVIER BURDEN 3 2 9 

It was the first time William had heard him use 
the word darling. 

“Nevertheless, I shall come,” she averred. 

When Lionel was in his bath, Eveline and William 
were in the drawing room. He stood by the window, 
looking down the street towards the sea, and she sat 
on the couch, turning idly the pages of the English 
Review , which William had bought that morning be¬ 
cause it contained a nature poem by John Helston. He 
said he would go. 

“You can stop here if you want to, Billy. But don’t 
let me prevent your going if you prefer to be with 
other people.” 

“You know I don’t.” 

“I don’t know it. I can go only by your behaviour, 
which is rather extraordinary. Why can’t you be 
happy and contented, like Sir John Lorayne or any 
other man? He said to me when you cleared off during 
the tournament that your behaviour was peculiar. His 
term was ‘wet,’ and although I found it hard to follow 
his curious sailors’ talk, yet the meaning was obvious.” 

“Why? Because I feel half the time I am no more 
to you than any one of half-a-dozen others.” 

“Oh, you exasperating man! No wonder Elsie Nor¬ 
man wouldn’t have anything to do with you, if you 
behaved to her as you behaved to me. Couldn t you 
see that the whole of Findlestone, all the old cats, 
the old screws, the has-beens and the dead-old frumps, 
there this afternoon, were quizzing me and talking 
about me? I wonder how many engaged girls other 
than Muriel Pamment would have remained quiet 
while I sat with Tubby? None. Muriel is a decent 
girl herself, and a decent girl is as rare as a chicken 
in a new-laid egg.” 


330 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“What would you expect any other girl to do? Bash 
you on the head with a racket, or aim balls at you?” 

“Oh, shut up!” She laughed. “I’m not addressing 
you, my dear. I’m sick of myself. But seriously, Billy, 
you’re a devilish awkward child to manage. Quillie 
is a plaster angel to you, and she’s a wild little demon 
—and the very spit of me, poor kid! Bill, why did 
you leave me this afternoon?” 

“You like snubbing those who care best for you, 
don’t you?” 

“I spoke mostly to Tubby because you were in one 
of your introspective moods, and I didn’t want to 
interfere. You think that’s a lie, don’t you? So it 
is. I’ll try again, like my old ancestress of the garden 
who, I bet, shook a shower of crabs on Adam’s napper. 
I addressed most of my remarks to the matelot because, 
one, he is bright; two, he is cheerful; three, he is 
about the only man I know who doesn’t introduce 
the personal note into the conversation; four, I don’t 
wear my heart on my sleeve for female vultures to 
peck at; and five, if you want to monopolise me you 
must do a little work for it. Bow-wow, W-William! 
You’re a funny old thing, aren’t you, my dear,” she 
added on a reflective note. 

“I care for you so much,” he said, going to the 
window, “so much, that I can think of nothing else. 
Certainly not honour.” 

“I hope you are not going to talk about honour, be¬ 
cause I can assure you that a woman’s standards are 
not a man’s. That, I believe, is elementary knowledge, 
a thing which you lack in an astounding degree. Or 
if you have any, you don’t show it. But you will 
learn a lot from me before you’ve finished, and what 
you’ve learned you will not forget. And when that 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


331 

time comes, remember that Eve was, according to 
her own standards, honest.” 

“I know you are,” he said, like one in pain. 

“Come and sit by me, quietly. Just hold my hand; 
hold my hand, Mr. Meddlesome, and do not be unkind. 
Be just your dear natural self again.” 

She lay back with closed eyes, breathing quietly. 
He sat upright, staring at the sky through the window. 
The minutes went by. He began to think that she 
cared for Lionel more than she liked to admit. He 
suffered. Martha in the kitchen could be heard laying 
plate and cutlery on the wooden tray. The splashing 
in the bathroom ceased, and a man’s voice was heard 
humming intermittently. She lay still. The bath¬ 
room door clicked, and his hand was squeezed and 
held. He did not move. On the thick carpet a foot 
made a dull thud, and Lionel looked round the door. 

“Shall I turn the water on, Lina? Aren’t you feeling 
very fit, old lady?” 

The eyes opened, freeing tears that rolled down 
her cheeks. She leapt up and went without a word 
swiftly past him and into her room. 

Lionel sat where she had been sitting beside him, 
and with deliberate movements selected a cigarette, 
tapped it on his thumbnail, and lit it. He drew deeply 
at it, inhaled the smoke and released it through mouth 
and nose. 

“Bill.” 

“Yes, Lionel.” 

“I want to ask you something.” 

William nodded. Lionel inhaled, and exhaled slowly. 

“I want you to promise me that you will be a pal 
to Lina—will you, old man?” 


332 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Yes,” and he cleared his throat. 

“Bill, I have a deep regard for you. I liked you 
from the start, and my experience of men is not small. 
I’m going to tell you something, so that you won’t 
have to worry your head when I am gone. Now I think 
that you can help Lina a lot with your friendship. 
She’s very fond of you, y’know. You needn’t look so 
alarmed, it’s a fact, so you’ll have to put up with it!” 
He exhaled a tremendous cloud of smoke, and tapped 
the ash on the floor. “Lina’s a mixture of all sorts of 
things, wild as a Dartmoor pony, impulsive and gen¬ 
erous, sometimes foolish and sometimes inconsiderate, 
but that’s only because she’s young, foolhardy and 
often unthinkingly rash. But you probably have 
gleaned all that already. People talk about her, of 
course; they do about everybody who is out of the 
ordinary run. They talked about her and Lord Sprey- 
combe, a man I don’t like and don’t want her to know. 
She’s promised me she’ll drop the fellow, and I’m 
awfully glad. She’s so intensely alive that she sees 
no harm in doing things that another woman, less 
vivid, would think twice about doing. But I shan’t 
be here to help her—I—well, I won’t go into the 
question of why she isn’t coming out East with me. 
She will later, when she’s settled down a bit and had 
her fling and sown her girlish wild oats. Now look 
here, Bill, when I’m gone, mind you come to the flat 
as usual, won’t you? It will be good for her, and good 
for you. I’d ask you to stay here in the spare room 
—but you understand, of course. But come as before 
to meals, old man- come just as before, and have a 
good old rest. You deserve a rest after the bitterness 
of war, and it will do you good. You’ll find that when 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


333 

you return to your painting you’ll be all the fresher, 
and won’t want to chuck any more canvasses and 
brushes over the Corpsnout, ha-ha!” 

“Bill, don’t be offended, but to-morrow—you under¬ 
stand—my last day—Lina and I will probably take 
a luncheon basket and the two-seater and spend the 
day out somewhere, perhaps at Dymchurch or Rye. 
But come to breakker as usual, and Martha will give 
you lunch and tea, and you can take Jonquil out, if 
you wouldn’t mind being nursemaid for once, or 
Martha can look after her if she’s too troublesome. 
And I hate to ask you to keep away, it seems so beastly 
selfish, but you understand, old man, don’t you. . . .” 

The next morning, walking with Jonquil on the 
Leas among the people taking the air between church 
and Sunday dinner, William passed a man in a wine- 
coloured reefer suit and wide brimmed felt hat whose 
face was familiar. The man was apparently puzzled 
when he saw him, for he stopped and looked for rec¬ 
ognition, and passed on, only to look back and meet 
William’s turned head. Mutually they went back. 

“I know you, surely,” said the man. He smiled, 
showing white, even teeth; he spoke in a resonant, 
clear voice; his features were good, and his face was 
sunburnt, but not as deeply as most of the male visitors 
on the beach below. 

“Your face is familiar, but I can’t remember where 
I met you. In the army, perhaps,” suggested William. 

“I was at Blackheath Art School a lot, with the 
Pay Corps. What crush were you in?” 

“Yeomanry, and afterwards Reserve Cavalry,” said 
William, as casually as he could, in order not to hurt 
the other man’s feelings. 

“Oh, yes? Lord, where can I have met you? At 


334 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the Green Room Club, perhaps, or in Town some¬ 
where?” 

“It might have been.” 

“Are you a pal of Sir George Bogside, or young 
Beverley?” 

“No.” 

“I’m de la Hay, you know.” 

“De la Hay? That name is very familiar.” 

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? The press agent, you know 
. . . one has to have someone to bang the drum in 
the profession. I’ve got you placed now! Weren’t 
you with Mrs. Fairfax at the first night of What Next, 
Dearief Of course you were, and looked daggers 
at me.” 

“I didn’t know that Mrs. Fairfax knew you. I beg 
your pardon,” said William. 

“Oh, yes, I was introduced to her by a mutual friend. 
Lord, she’s as pretty as a peach. If only she’d go on 
the stage, she’d make a splash in musical comedy. I 
suppose I ought to insist on it, for the honour of the 
profession.” 

Elsie Norman with Charlie Cerr-Nore and Mary 
Ogilvie passed them, and Jonquil darted to the dark 
girl. 

“Don’t let me keep you, old boy,” said Mr. de la 
Hay, “if you want to join the ladies. I say, what did 
you think of my part in the show?” 

“Awfully good,” lied William. 

“Honest business, old boy? You thought it a 
winner?” 

“Well, look how they applauded!” 

“And did you like my onions?” 

“Your onions?” 

“The sob stuff song, Love a-dyingt” 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


335 


“What a funny expression, onions!” 

“But did you like the number, old boy?” 

“Very good.” 

“Au revoir, old boy. So glad you liked my song.” 

Mr. de la Hay showed his white teeth and went 
away, and William hurried after his friends. 

That afternoon he bathed with Mary and Jonquil, 
who hopped about in three inches of water, splashing 
and giving little squeals when a wave came. She 
danced and sang, not at all shy of the crowd by the 
wet cocoanut matting that led from the bathing build¬ 
ing to the water. She said she didn’t care for the 
waves, and stretched herself in the sun on the wet 
silver-nailed pebbles, but when a big ninth wave rolled 
and crashed she leapt up and threw stones at it, and 
shouted “Nasty wet old waves, Quillie thinks you silly. 
Take that, old waves.” 

They went for tea to the house of the merry Pam- 
ment family, afterwards returning to the flat. It was 
deserted and quiet, except for the snores of Martha 
asleep on a hard kitchen chair, with head fallen forward 
on folded arms. 

“W-W-Willum, don’t wake her,” hissed Jonquil; 
“she’s a bit fed up to-day.” 

“With Sunday dinner, I suppose.” 

“No, Willum. With life. Let’s come to Grand¬ 
father’s.” 

They went round to Radnor Park Gardens, and 
found the two aunts and old Mr. Fairfax in the garden, 
with the cat Tommy on his knee. Seeing Billjohn, it 
leapt off and flew at him, spitting and making a savage 
noise. Billjohn fled, and Mr. Fairfax shouted irritably: 

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, goo’ boy, don’t be 
frightened. Call your dog off, Mr. Maggleton.” 


336 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Billjohn yelled and fled round flower pots and over 
flower beds, with the furry fury after him smacking 
with clawed paws and spitting. The noise made several 
dogs bark in other gardens, and William threw a stone 
at Tommy. 

“How dare you do that?” fumed Mr. Fairfax. “How 
dare you! Leave the house at once. No one asked 
you in. Go away, Mr. Maggleton, go away this 
instant.” 

“Hush, father, hush,” begged Millicent. ‘ r Think of 
the neighbours. They can all hear.” 

At last Billjohn fled through the gate leading to an 
ivied lane at the bottom of the garden, and Tommy 
jumped on the wall behind his master. Billjohn stood 
and whined in the lane. 

“I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“No use doing that now. The damage is done. Who 
let you in?” 

“We walked in, sir.” 

“How dare you? Why didn’t you ring?” 

“I pulled the bell, sir, but unfortunately it came 
away in my hand. The wire was rusted through.” 

“What!” spluttered Mr. Fairfax. “You’ve broken 
my bell! And then you walk in?” 

“I thought that better than running away. If you 
will let me send a tinker to-morrow, sir, I-” 

“You must pay for it. Milly, see that he pays for 
it. And that window broken by an old boot on Peace 
Day. No doubt he flung it.” 

“Father, don’t be silly. You’ll make yourself ill. 
Billy, don’t take any notice. Poor dear father is tried 
by the heat.” 

No doubt, thought William, since he was muffled up 
in a great coaching overcoat and a woolen scarf. The 


HEAVIER BURDEN 337 

old gentleman suddenly became less irascible, and 
asked William if he was a British Israelite. 

“No, sir.” 

“Then you ought to be. Have you gone into the 
question? No, of course not. All godless, you young 
men, like that mad atheist Shelley, whose books my 
father burned, sir! The war was made by Satan. It 
was prophesied in the Old Testament, Mr. Maggie- 
stone.” 

“Maddison, my poor parent,” murmured Mrs. 
Beayne, who had been sitting quietly during the 
animal scrapping. 

“Maddison, hum, yes. Not one of the Wiltshire 
Maddisons, surely?” 

“My forefathers lived there, I believe, sir.” 

“Then you must read about British Israel, because 
you come of a good stock, young man. Milly, fetch 
my books after supper. Mr. Maddison, you must stop 
to supper. Now, hearken to me. You read your Bible, 
of course.” 

“No, sir, I prefer reading Shelley,” he replied coldly, 
disliking the changed attitude because Mr. Fairfax 
knew of his family. 

“Then you must not read that immoral madman 
any more. This war would have been saved if the 
world had realized that the old prophets had foretold 
Armageddon. It was for the English to realize that 
they are the lost tribes of Israel, the chosen race of 
God. But they didn’t. Here, Tommy, Tommy, 
Tommy, come on my knee, then, Tommy, Tommy, 
Tommy. No, they didn’t believe it! They wouldn’t 
listen.” 

“No, they wouldn’t listen,” said William. “They 
wouldn’t listen, I mean your Jews—the tribe that 


338 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

called themselves God’s chosen! They paraded the 
same mouldy thoughts of God before One in whose 
mind was pure and living truth. No wonder he was a 
man of sorrows! I know how he suffered, sir—are 
you listening to me?—because ever since my adoles¬ 
cence I have suffered, because things that are so clear 
to me are incomprehensible to others. I have suffered 
since adolescence because everywhere I have been up 
against brick-walls of un-understanding. I will not 
listen to your remarks about the lost tribes, except to 
say that I hope no one will ever find them. They 
should have known better—those upper classes, the 
educated classes, of Jerusalem. They hindered the 
tender, sensitive, quivering mind of a genius by asking 
their petty, lawyer-like catch-questions—bringing 
coins with a Roman emperor’s head embossed thereon: 
bringing a woman taken in adultery—trying to dis¬ 
tress and torture and catch-out the White Bird of 
the sky singing from its soul with the voice of the Great 
Spirit of Beauty—not your conception of God, sir, or 
the conception of God of the lost tribes. And the 
lonely ones, who are winged themselves, know so well 
what the Greatest suffered: they know, because they, 
too, have suffered. And they know that the vast 
majority of people who profess and call themselves 
Christians have never known what it is to be tortured 
spiritually—tortured because none seem to understand 
them, and call them Blasphemers and Madmen and 
Atheists and Pessimists and other cruel names: and 
tortured because they see truth, and wish to tell it, but 
no one heeds them. Ah! how Jesus was tortured spir¬ 
itually, all the long years before he taught, and grieved, 
and pined, and suffered, and glowed with celestial fire. 
What right have the untouched, the spiritually- 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


339 

atrophied, to speak about Jesus the man, making his 
vision fit their man-of-the-world standards, confining 
in the cramped, dark cage of their dogmas and convic¬ 
tions the White Bird of the Sky?” 

“It wasn’t very long ago the Greatest of Poets died, 
sir. It happened before. It will happen again, with 
some lonely visionary who hasn’t a living person be¬ 
lieving the truth that is in him—until it is too late, 
and the White Bird is slain. Good-day, sir. I can 
stay here no longer. Billjohn! To heel!” 

After this strange outburst he left the house of Mr. 
Fairfax, who gave away most of his very small income 
to the cause of proving that the English were the lost 
tribes, whilst he and his daughter Millicent, who had 
remained single in order to look after him, lived on the 
barest necessities of life. He was again distressed 
when he recalled this, thinking that it typified the 
devout stubbornness of extreme dogmatic conviction 
which thought of God as a director of the minutiae of 
each human life—which had made God in its own 
petty image. Blind and ignorant, he thought, and 
utterly failing to understand the Carpenter’s Son. 

He walked up and down the Leas, a pain at the base 
of his skull; and when Eveline appeared with Milly 
and Lionel, calling out “Billy!” in her charming voice, 
he longed to be alone with her, so that with his head 
on her shoulder he could find sanctuary from the 
thoughts that, like hounds, pursued him. 

But such rest was impossible. After half an hour 
they departed, taking Jonquil, and he had to remain 
and answer as brightly as possible the bright remarks 
of Milly. She insisted on taking him home to supper, 
where Mr. Fairfax spoke seldom to him. At half past 
nine he complained of a headache, and said that he 


340 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


thought he would go to bed. He had acute indiges¬ 
tion. Mrs. Beayne said to him at the door as she let 
him out, 

“Good-night, my dear boy. Go home and have a 
good rest. I loved hearing what you said. If it's any 
help, remember Aunt Margy believes in you, if only 
because you like dogs. Good-night, Billyjohn, my 
handsome bow-wow. Bring your nice young master 
to see us again.” 

He went on the Leas, remaining there till the prom¬ 
enade was almost deserted, and every other lamp 
had been extinguished, a sign that it was nearly eleven 
o’clock. Then he walked down The Paragon, on the 
other side of the road, and in the shadow of the garden 
hedge opposite the flat he watched the lighted window 
at the top of the house. 

A man on a bicycle with a long stick came and put 
out the big light at the cross roads. Two church clocks 
chimed the hour within a few seconds of each other. 
He walked up and down, the light in Eveline’s bed¬ 
room was switched on, so that both sides of the top 
flat were illuminated. At a quarter past eleven the 
drawing room became dark, but he did not move away. 
He leaned against the garden railings, his hand on his 
forehead and trembling slightly. The hall door opened, 
but he did not hear; and Lionel had come down the 
steps, softly on the rubber soles of his shoes, and 
spoken, before he looked up, wondering wildly if he 
should run away. 

“What are you doing there?” enquired Lionel, curtly, 
as he crossed the road. 

“I just happened to be passing,” he heard his own 
voice saying. 

“It’s Bill! My dear old man, I’m sorry I spoke 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


341 


like that. I saw someone hanging about, and con¬ 
stantly looking up—one can see quite clearly from up 
there—and I came to see. Hope I didn’t scare you, 

Bill.” 

“No, Lionel, no.” 

“You sound a bit shaky, old man. By Jove, you’re 
trembling. Come for a quiet walk to warm your blood. 
Nerves a bit groggy, still, I expect, after that blasted 
war. Cigarette?” 

“Thanks awfully.” 

The darkness on the Leas was comforting, and they 
walked past the deserted Rest Camp, coming to the 
cliff path. 

“Shall we go down to the sea?” asked Lionel, and 
he said “Yes.” On the wooden seat under the trees 
they sat down, smoking their cigarettes, a muffled 
blackness around and above them. 

The silence was oppressive. Lionel did not speak. 
William felt that he wanted to speak, and was waiting 
for himself to say something. A wind stirred the tops 
of the pines, making an aerial soughing remote and 
high above them; the waves rushed on the unseen 
shingle, paused, sucking back and waiting, then rush¬ 
ing forward again. Then he was aware of little noises 
all about them, squeaks so shrill and sharp that the 
ear nearly missed them. A leaf rustled as a mouse ran 
swiftly to its hole under the root of a pinetree. 

“Bill, old man, I shouldn’t stay up half the night 
if I were you. I know the restlessness of youth, but 
if you strain yourself now you will regret it so much 
later on. You haven’t been looking quite so fit lately. 
Is there any trouble—I don’t want to be inquisitive 
but sort of elder brotherly, if you understand. You 
regard me as a pal, don’t you?” 


34 2 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Oh, thank you, Lionel. I—I don’t really deserve 
to have a pal.” 

“Rot, utter rot. Look here, I’m rather concerned 
about you, and I’m going to take the risk of offending 
you. Now, I’m going to ask a dashed personal ques¬ 
tion.” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you worrying over any girl—I mean, of course, 
little Mary Ogilvie?” 

He made no reply. 

“I rather thought so. Well, Bill, take my advice, 
and leave her alone for a bit. Go away, and get some 
job, and work hard. Then things will come out all 
right. You see, if a decent girl like Mary is fond of a 
man, and knows, as she will, that he is fond of her, 
she wants to believe that he will go through anything 
to win her. A girl wants to be won, Bill, just as much 
as she wants to *be loved. Now, forgive the next 
impertinence, and remember that I’m keen as 
mustard to help you, because I—well, I damn well 
like you.” 

“You’re too decent,” muttered William. 

“Bill, have you got any private income?” 

“Nothing. I’ve got about seventy pounds left of 
my gratuity; after that, I’m broke.” 

“Well, Bill, have a little rest first, and then see 
about a job. Carry on with your painting afterwards. 

I haven’t seen any of your things, but I think you’ve 
got the qualities in you, not quite matured yet, that 
will make you all right. You’ve got sensibility—any¬ 
one can see that—and love of beauty and the true 
things of life. Meanwhile, get a job.” 

“Yes, I think I must. I feel convinced that sooner 
or later I shall succeed in my work.” 


HEAVIER BURDEN 


343 

“I’m sure you will. But it’s usually a case of later, 
y’know.” 

"Lionel.” 

“Yes.” 

“I only like Mary as a friend.” 

“Oh.” 

Nothing was said while he lit a cigarette from the 
stump of the old one. 

“Is it anyone else I know, Bill? Don’t be afraid to 
tell me. Is it Lina?” 

He did not answer. 

“You silly old ass,” said Lionel, patting his shoulder, 
“you’re a bit afraid of me, I do believe! Well, I will 
tell you a secret—there’s no confidence betrayed in 
the circumstances. You remember when I looked 
round the door yesterday? For a moment I admit I 
was surprised when I saw you holding Lina’s hand. 
Then I knew by her eyes and the abrupt manner of her 
departing that she was upset by my going away. 
Thereby hangs another confidence, Bill. However, 
Lina told me afterwards how pally you had been to 
her, and how you had kissed her when you saw 
her distress. Why, Bill, that’s the very reason 
why I like you so much—that spontaneity, saying 
and doing the thing you feel. Lina herself was sur¬ 
prised, and, as she told me, felt a warm affection for 
you.” 

After a pause he went on: 

“I think your affection for Lina is a great compli¬ 
ment to her, and to me as well. Lina is a woman who 
attracts men—she has grace and beauty and that 
elusive quality that only the most feminine of women 
possess. I, as her husband, realize that I am in a sense 
the guardian of that beauty. You see, old chap, I am 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


344 

telling you this because I know you are a decent 
fellow. . . .” 

“I’m not,” said William. 

“Nonsense, Bill! Of course you think so . . . what 
decent man doesn’t? Again, even the best of men 
think things that they are ashamed of, and the very 
fact of their being ashamed shows that they have 
the right stuff in them. Now, the advice I am going to 
give you is this. Do not waste yourself on anything 
that is not worthy of your true self ... if you do, 
you will have to repay in bitterness and pain, one way 
or the other. I’m not referring to you personally: 
I’m giving you a sort of impersonal, irrelevant advice, 
if you understand what I mean by that.” 

A note of strain seemed to have crept into the 
speaker’s voice. It went on hurriedly: 

“I want you to be friends with Lina, for I am sure 
that you will be a good friend to her. If you go away, 
I hope you will be able to run down now and then and 
see her; and, above all, don’t take any notice of what 
people say—there are always a lot of mean men and 
women—with little, petty souls—who are only too 
ready to talk. You must know the sort of thing I 
mean, Bill, but don’t worry. 

“And, Bill, don’t idealize women. Suffering lies that 
way. Face reality, Bill, and crush down the vision 
of what you desire—don’t idealize anyone too much— 
you will suffer, if you do-” 

The listener made no reply. Through the dark a 
curlew whistled its sweet and husky journey-notes. 

“Bill, my heart went out to you when I saw you 
standing by that lamp-post. I realized suddenly that 
you must be so very lonely without a mother, or sister, 




HEAVIER BURDEN 345 

or brothers, and a father you’ve lost touch with. I 
wish you were coming with me. 

“Yet your way lies in another direction. A man 
must work out his own destiny, Bill. Go to London 
and get a job. Live carefully—follow your ambition, 
your painting, I mean, in your spare time, and then 
one day you will meet someone whom you will want 
to marry. I know, Bill: for I have felt as you are 
feeling now.” A minute’s silence and he said, “Well, 
Bill, what are you thinking of?” 

“Nothing, Lionel,” he said, feeling that at the 
slightest further kindness he would lay down his head 
on the patient earth, and burst into tears. In his mind 
he was seeing Eveline as she knelt before the fire, look¬ 
ing at him, and yet past him, with wet eyes, a woman 
weak and helpless and passionate, for she was in love 
with a man, and that man was himself. If only he had 
left the cottage and gone to sleep in the bracken, if 
only he had not set himself on fire by thrusting the 
torch of that auburn hair against his throat. He ought 
to have confessed about Devon—he was deceitful, 
treacherous, faithless. Yet he loved Eve, and now he 
was speaking to Lionel, whom he almost loved as much 
as one could love another man. In silence he despaired, 
till his agonized spirit broke from actuality and 
streamed with Shelley’s wind down the golden track¬ 
ways of the stars. 


CHAPTER XI 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 

After an early breakfast at an eating house he hurried 
round to the flat. Outside a one-armed man with a 
scarred face, standing by a barrow, clicked his heels and 
saluted. He returned the salute, and said good-morn¬ 
ing, while noting the four brass wound-stripes on the 
man's sleeve and the silver badge in his buttonhole. 

“Beg pardon, sir, but would you tell the General that 
the outside porter is present.” 

“I will,” said William; “but how do you know I am 
the General’s friend?” 

“Beg pardon, sir, but I thought you must be, as I’ve 
seen you about with the General so often.” 

“Very well, I will give your message.” 

“Thank you, sir,” and the ex-soldier came to 
attention. 

He stepped into the hall, seeing that the ground floor 
rooms were still in a state of incomplete decoration, 
owing to a strike of the workmen. Up two flights of 
stairs he came to the second floor, occupied, in Eveline’s 
description, by a “disagreeable little red-nosed unedu¬ 
cated elderly man retired from a grocery business” who 
was at that moment, as at most of his moments, quar¬ 
relling behind closed doors with a bewigged woman, 
whom he claimed as his niece. Up the third and fourth 
flights, and he came to the door of the Fairfax flat, 

346 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D ARCY FAIRFAX 347 

He knocked, and waited. Fie knocked again, and 
after a further wait Martha came and opened it. The 
hall was piled with tin trunks. 

“Why didn't you walk in as usual, mister? It wasn't 
locked." 

“Martha, where are they?" 

“In there, mister." She pointed to the bedroom 
door. “The missus isn't very well, mister. She's got 
one of her headaches, what she sometimes has when she 
isn't very well. She's very upset because he's going 
away, mister." 

“Yes, I suppose she is." 

He sat down in the drawing room and waited. He 
glanced at the papers, only to throw them down again. 
About five minutes went by, and a door was pulled 
open and Lionel strode into the room. William did 
not look at his face. 

“Just coming, Bill," he said quietly, walking round 
the table twice, taking a cigarette, and patting his 
pockets for matches. 

“Here you are," William offered. 

“Doesn't matter—don't want to smoke, Bill." 

The cigarette was thrown out of the window. 

“The porter is outside, Lionel." 

“Oh, good. We haven't much time. Lord, I hope 
I haven’t forgotten anything." 

“Shall I call him up?" 

“If you wouldn't mind. Martha, where's the 
decanter?" 

“Here you are, mister," gasped the maid, rushing in 
with a tray bearing decanter, siphon and tumblers. 

“ 'Ave a good stiff peg, mister." 

“Thank you. A little present, Martha." 

He handed her a five pound bank note 


348 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Thank you, mister, but I don't want that." 

“Go on, take it: don’t be so silly. And look after 
Jonquil and Mrs. Fairfax, won’t you?’’ 

“Yes, mister, in course I will. Don’t you fret, mister. 
Here, drink a good stiff peg, mister.’’ 

There were tears in Martha’s old eyes, and she looked 
at Lionel with a grieved expression. 

The porter, who had been beckoned from the win¬ 
dow by William, rang the bell, and Martha went out. 

“Drink health, Bill.” 

“Your health, sir.” 

Major Fairfax raised his tumbler of almost neat 
whiskey, and looked straight at him. 

“Here’s good fortune to you, Bill.” 

Thank you. And to you—I—oh, good fortune, 
Lionel!” 

They clinked glasses and drank, or rather gulped. 

“Hat, stick, gloves, waterproof. But it won’t rain. 
Money. Note-case—matches—damn, I want some 
matches.” 

“Take mine.” 

Thanks. Is that luggage gone? Will the man be 
late?” 

“There’s plenty of time. Isn’t Lina going to the 
station?” 

“No, we say good-bye here. You see—train—un¬ 
bearable-” 

“Yes, I see. Shall I go on?” 

“Will you? Right-ho. I’ll catch you up.” 

“I’ll take your mackintosh.” 

“Will you? Right-ho. See you there.” 

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to the aunts?” 

“Done that already.” 

“Well, I’ll go now.” 



DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 349 

“Right-ho, old man/’ 

William went out of the room, just as Eveline in the 
dove grey kimono, fastened by a silk rope and pom¬ 
pons, slipperless and loose mane of hair flying out 
behind, leapt up the stairs to fetch Jonquil. She looked 
at him in passing, without recognition or greeting. 
He went downstairs, pretending not to see the little 
man in the flat below peeping through one door, and 
his niece through the other. 

He loitered till Lionel joined him, and quickly they 
walked to the station, finding that they had five 
minutes before the train left. They strolled slowly 
up and down the platform while the trunks were 
labelled for Southampton. Major Fairfax talked about 
a number of irrelevant things, and hearing the whistle 
of the approaching engine he took hold of William’s 
left arm just above the elbow and said: 

“She’s beginning to realize that the hat she’s looking 
for is on her head already. Bill, go and see her as 
before. She wants a real pal. And, when you go away, 
run down sometimes, won’t you?” 

“Yes, I will, Lionel.” 

“Twelve months. Well, it’s worth it, Bill. I’ll take 
my coat. Thanks. Smoker, please!” to the porter. 

The trunks and boxes were dragged into the guard’s 
van, people walked past seeking empty carriages, hat- 
less heads looked out of open windows. Passengers 
found seats. The guard stood by with his green flag. 
Lionel jumped in and leaned his elbows on the frame. 

“Good-bye, Bill.” 

“Good-bye, Lionel.” 

“Write to me.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll be longing to hear about things. Use the car 


350 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


when you want to. Go back and cheer her up now, 
won’t you?” 

The guard waved his flag, the whistle shrieked, the 
train moved. 

“Look after Lina for me,” came the last words, 
almost in lip movement, and William whispered “Yes.” 
Until it rounded a curve and so hid him from sight, 
he stood unmoving, except for a hand sometimes 
waved. 

When he walked into the room she was listlessly 
sitting on the couch, still in the dove grey kimono, 
with auburn hair loosely coiled. She greeted him 
quietly, turning her glance to rest upon him for a 
moment, as it swung back again from the window. 

He said nothing, but stood by the chimneypiece. It 
was still early, and the sea breeze was hardly stirring. 
He looked round the walls, at the knobkerries and 
assegais, and other momentos of travel; at the water¬ 
colours and photographic reproductions of Rodin’s 
sculptures; at the picture of Eveline herself, the blue- 
gray eyes that looked, even as they were looking now, 
past and beyond the beholder. She drew her legs up 
on the couch, so that the swan’s-down slippers dangled 
from her toes. He moved sideways, wondering if she 
was seeing him; and she was, but with what a strange 
look. 

She leaned back and shook free her hair, dividing 
it into two tresses, which she pulled over her shoulders 
and commenced to plait. He went across the rugs, 
and sat by her. so that his knee pressed against the 
pink feet. She looked at him over her right shoulder, 
the adorable head thrown back obliquely, while plaiL 
ing the left tress. 

“Eveline,” he said, moving nearer. 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 351 

She drew away with a frown, which passed immedi¬ 
ately into a smile of sympathy as with a quick move¬ 
ment she shifted to the other end of the couch. 

“No, Lord Tornsox,” she gently reproved. 

“But I wasn’t going to-” 

“Don’t do that, please. What you did was most 
natural. Have you had breakfast?” 

“I have had kippers, cocoa and whiskey, thank you. 
That, I think, can be regarded as a meal more or less 
complete.” 

“What ever is the matter with you that you talk 
in that stilted manner. Is it whiskey? Are you the 
better for liquor, my dear Tornsox?” 

She laughed, looking so like the little maid of the 
portrait, that pain increased in his heart. 

They stared at each other, then detecting something 
in his eyes her face became blank, and she went on 
with the plaiting of the left tress. 

“Shall I help you?” he asked. 

“No, I don’t think you had better.” 

“Shall I send for Martha?” 

“No, thank you. Martha has her own work to do. 
Billy, I want you to be serious a moment.” 

“Yes.” 

“We mustn’t go on any more.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We must end, Billy.” 

“End, what?” 

“Why ask me questions? You know very well what 
I mean. Well, if you want it plainly, I’ll tell you. 
You mustn’t make love to me any more.” 

He said sadly, 

“I had no intention of doing so.” 

But he winced at her immediate reply of: “I am 



THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


352 

very glad. I feel an absolute swine. Honestly! Fancy 
confessing that to a man! I don’t think I could to 
any other except you.” 

“Not even to Lionel?” 

“Lord, no. And yet, I think he would understand.” 

“You say ‘Lord, no’ because you respect him. And 
for me you can have no respect.” 

“Don’t be hurt,” she begged him, taking his hand, 
which he let lie limply in hers. 

“Listen, Bill. I really mean that we must finish. 
Otherwise I should hate myself more than I do, and I 
should hate you, and that would be really a disaster. 
You see, my dear, I’ve given my word of honour that 
I’ll w T rite and tell him immediately if ever I feel I like 
anyone more than him. That is his term—‘like.’ And 
I certainly don’t want to have to write such a letter. 
We went down on our knees and he asked me to pray 
to God so that I shall grow to love him. Oh, Bill, I 
felt that my heart would break! I shall never love 
him. I wish I could!” 

He said nothing. 

“You understand, don’t you?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“Billy, don’t be unkind.” 

“Am I unkind? I’m sorry. But I do understand.” 

“But you say it in such funny tones as though you 
didn’t care. And I did so want you to understand 
that I am trying to play the game—a bit late in the 
day, perhaps, but I am.” 

“I do understand.” 

“Thank you,” she said simply. “Now, I must go 
and have a bath. Shall we swim this morning? It’s 
a topping day again. Poor old Lionel, in that filthy 
train! I wish he were here, honest Injun, I do.” 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 353 

“I believe you do!” he said bitterly. 

“Of course I do! I say, Bill, you should have seen 
our daughter saying good-bye to paterfamilias. Kiss¬ 
ing him demurely and holding out a polite paw. ‘Good¬ 
bye, father, and hope you have a nice voyage. Quilly 
must go now, as Swally is crying!’ Complete staggera- 
tion of paterfamilias! Exit, right, to nursery.” 

“Poor Lionel!” 

“Oh, I don’t suppose he worries. He isn’t very fond 
of children.” 

“All his capital is sunk in one big company.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You’re his wife.” 

“He’s awfully keen on his job.” 

“I speak metaphorically of his emotions.” 

“Then I’m going to bathe. Call a spade a spade by 
all means, but don’t call it an implemental statum dis¬ 
turber. See you in twenty minutes. Come shopping?” 

“Yes, I’ll hang about outside shops with, a basket, 
if you like.” 

He saw her in twenty minutes as she looked round 
the door in the dressing gown after her bath, but it 
was fifty minutes before she was dressed, and then 
she called him into the bedroom to fasten the back 
hooks of her white frock. They went round to her 
grandfather’s, where she told them that she was 
“bearing up as best she could.” Aunt Milly cried, “Of 
course you are, dear old girl.” Aunt Margy chuckled 
deeply, and went on with her sewing, an occupation 
that appeared to be for her a whole-time one. Aunt 
Milly told them that What Next, Dearie f was going to 
be produced at a West End Theatre at the beginning of 
the New Year, and that Beverley Bogside, “flushed 


354 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


with success,” was writing another one, to be called 
Why This , Darling! 

After ices and meringues at Corvano’s, they went 
to swim, then to hear the Town Band. Mr. de la Hay, 
strolling with clouded cane and goatskin gloves passed 
by them and raised his broad-brimmed felt hat, and 
paused and came to them. His silk tie, his collar, his 
shirt, his enamelled links, his suit, his socks—all were 
different shades of blue. 

“Do you know Captain Maddison?” she asked. 
“Billy, this is Mr. de la Hay.” 

“I've had the honour of meeting him already,” said 
de la Hay in his rich voice. 

“Oh, have you? I didn’t know. How long are you 
stopping here, Mr. de la Hay?” 

“Till the West End rehearsals, I expect, Mrs. Fair¬ 
fax. I find this a charming place.” He glanced at his 
immaculate trousers, at his patent leather shoes. 

“Won’t you sit down?” 

“Thanks.” 

William lit his pipe carefully and got up. “I’ve just 
remembered an engagement. Will you excuse me if 
I rush off?” 

“Of course, Billy. Will you be back to lunch?” 

“Well, it is an engagement for lunch, and tea as 
well, I expect. Tennis, you know.” 

“Then I shall see you at dinner? Or shan’t I?” 

“Thanks very much. Good-bye.” 

“Good-bye—hope you have a good game.” 

They both smiled at him, and he went down to the 
beach with a Billjohn trotting at his heels too hot to 
explore the myriad smells that came to him. Tired of 
sitting by the sea, he climbed another cliff path and 
4^ent round to the Normans’ house. They were out, 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 355 

with the exception of Mrs. Norman, who told him to 
come in, and asked him how he was getting on. 

“How is it you aren’t with your friends this morn¬ 
ing, Willie?” 

“Major Fairfax went back to-day, Mrs. Norman.” 

“Surely his wife didn’t go with him?” 

“No. She’s still here.” 

“Are you going away soon?” 

“I don’t know, Mrs. Norman.” 

“Then the sooner you make up your mind to go, 
the better. That woman is not the slightest good to 
you, Willie, or to anyone else. I’m talking straight 
because it’s for your good. The looker-on sees most 
of the game, you know. Besides, the husband is your 
friend, isn’t he?” 

“Can’t I be friends with both of them?” 

“You might want to be, but such things don’t 
happen. A platonic friendship isn’t feasible. One or 
the other spoils it, sooner or later. Take the advice of 
a woman of the world, Willie, and go away while there’s 
time. Aren’t you ever going to do any work?” 

“It’s very hard to get a job now-a-days, Mrs. 
Norman.” 

“Have you tried?” 

“No.” 

“I thought not. I hope you aren’t going to develop 
into an idler. But you were always a peculiar and 
indolent boy. Don’t be offended at these home truths. 
Willie, do pull yourself together, or you’ll be making 
a mess of your life.” 

“How do you know I’ve been doing nothing in 
Devon? Really, I have not been idling, unless you 
call thinking an idleness.” 


356 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“You deceive yourself, Willie. That’s a despicable 
excuse for laziness—thinking!” 

“I am prepared to be despised,” he said mournfully, 
clenching his hands. “I am quite used to that, ever 
since the days when I was thrashed because I couldn’t 
force my wretched’s child’s head to do filthy and 
beastly schoolwork. Father used to threaten to break 
up my birds’ eggs—my lovely relics of happiness and 
ecstasy—and now the world, I suppose, will do its best 
to destroy the thoughts that begin to rise, like a ghostly 
phoenix, from the ashes of those taintless days. You 
say I was indolent as a boy, you wise grownups, with 
your canes and your all-wise condemnation of the 
little boys’ dreams and your money and snobbishness. 
One day the world will cease to grind away the natural, 
the childlike, the godlike part of the soul, but there 
will be a lot more bludgeoning first, many more Cal- 
varys, many more Odes to the West Wind—and we 
only have about two visionaries in a century.” 

“Possibly. But you are not one. And, if you were, 
it would not alter the fact that Mrs. Fairfax is the 
wife of another man, and that man is supposed to be 
your friend, and that you’ve got to earn your own 
living, or starve.” 

“What’s this about starving?” enquired the voice 
of Mr. Norman in the hall. “Who’s starving? Our 
Willie. He certainly looks a bit thin. However, there’s 
salmon and cutlets for lunch. What have you been 
doing with yourself all the time? We’ve been expect¬ 
ing you to come round at least once a week.” 

“He’s been too taken up with other friends, of 
course. My dear Willie, if you know her origin, how 
you would bo surprised!” 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 357 

“Now, then, no secrets betrayed!” said Mr. Norman. 

“Very well, I’ll leave you to talk.” 

Left alone, Mr. Norman asked if anything were the 
matter. 

“Nothing, Mr. Norman.” 

“You mustn’t worry about what people say to you, 
Willie. A man must do what he thinks right. True 
education is a leading-out—the real meaning of the 
word—a leading-out of the falseness in one’s nature. 
It takes time. Don’t worry! Salmon and cutlets for 
lunch. Staying?” 

“Thank you.” 

“We’re going next week, you know.” 

He had lunch and tea with them, and allowed him¬ 
self, with a curious feeling of apprehension, to be 
persuaded to remain to supper. Elsie and Charlie were 
partners in bridge against William and Mrs. Norman. 
William revoked nine times in two rubbers. At ten 
o’clock he went round to The Paragon, and walked 
upstairs. 

“There was no light in the drawing room. In the 
kitchen he could hear the soft steaming of a kettle. 
Martha sat within, with folded arms, staring at the 
gas stove. She looked up wearily as he walked in. 

“She’s gone out, mister.” 

“Where to?” 

“I don’t know, mister. She expected you to lunch 
and tea, and a cover was laid for you at dinner, but 
you didn’t come. She’s been solitary all day, mister. 
I think she misses the master very much.” 

“Yes, I expect she does.” 

“Yes, mister. Would you like a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you, Martha. I suppose you don’t know 
where she’s gone?” 


358 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“No, mister. She said she couldn't wait here any 
more, and went out." 

“I'll go and find her, then." 

“Yes, mister." 

He went on the Leas, walking quickly and scanning 
in the light of the lamps the faces of the people he 
passed on foot and on the seats. He could not see her. 
The time came when every other lamp was switched 
out, and he was a mile past the bandstand. Thinking 
she might be on one of the lower walks he left the 
promenade and went along a parallel path a few yards 
below the top of the Leas. Seeing a dim figure coming 
slowly towards him he sat down on a seat and hid 
his face in his coat collar. It was a woman, and she 
went past slowly, but whether or no she looked at him 
he did not see; a man was following her. Stealthily 
he passed the seat, overtaking her some distance away. 
William listened. He heard the footsteps stop, and a 
man's voice saying, “Good-evening. What are you 
doing all by yourself, little girl, and so late at night?" 

The man continued, in a slightly altered voice— 
“Surely I met you on the beach this morning?"—and 
Eveline’s calm reply: “Do you mind going away?" 

“I say, don't get huffy. A chap can mistake a lady, 
can't he?" 

“Yes, but I never mistake a gentleman," she icily 
replied, walking towards William. 

“Is that you, Bill?" 

“Yes," he said, jumping up. The man slipped away. 

“Where have you been, Billy?" 

“I've been looking for you. Who’s that man?" 

“Some bounder from London, I expect. Have you 
been home?" 

“Yes." 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 359 

“Did Martha tell you I was out?” 

“Yes. I came to find you.” 

“That’s very kind of you. I didn’t know I had 
such a friend.” 

“I went away this morning because I don’t like your 
pal, that’s all.” 

“That’s rather a habit of yours, isn’t it, my dear? 
It has its cause in snobbish conceit.” 

They went up to the promenade, and strolled in the 
direction of home, speaking seldom. The iron bands 
of suffering tightened round his chest. Outside the 
flat he said good-night, but did not go away; and she 
said, 

“Good-night.” 

“Good-bye, Eveline.” 

Some singing soldiers passed, arm-in-arm, walking 
back to Quorneliffe Camp. When they had gone she 
said casually, 

“I had a wire from Peter White to-day, and I rather 
wanted to ask your advice about him. But if you 
would rather not-” 

“You know I’d do anything in the world to help 
you, Eve.” 

“You have a funny way of showing your devotion. 
But you’re of such fine tissue, I suppose, that my 
coarse nature upsets you. You ought to have been a 
woman, Billy, and I ought to have been a man. You 
would be a nun.” 

“That’s a cruel thing to say, Eve.” 

“I didn’t mean it as such. But you constantly take 
my remarks in a manner different from what I intend.” 

“It often seems to me that you delight in hurting 
people.” 

“Only those I love.” 


3 6o THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“And your love is like the chafing sea.” And, wist¬ 
fully, he added: “But I love you just the same.” 

“You mustn’t say that any more, Lord Tornsox.” 

“Very well. I’ll go now—good-night, Eveline.” 

“Won’t you come in a moment for a cigarette?” 

“Are you sure I shan’t be in the way?” 

“Don’t talk in that unnatural manner. Be your 
own dear self, Billy. You can be an angel.” 

Martha gave them coffee, and Eveline said, “You 
poor dear, have you been waiting up for me? Go to 
bed, Marty.” 

They sipped the coffee and smoked cigarettes. Motor 
cars passed outside, and then the big lamp at the cross¬ 
streets was extinguished by a man with a long stick, 
Only one shaded reading lamp illumined the room. 

“I’ll show you the telegram,” she said, rising to 
get it. When he had read it, and re-read it, William 
asked her who was meant by Mignon. 

“That is supposed to be me.” 

“A term of affection?” 

“I suppose so. Surely you know it is a French word, 
meaning Darling? Where were you brought up?” 

“He is in love with you, Eve—like everyone else.” 

“In his boyish way, I suppose he is. I can’t help it.” 

He gave her the telegram, and Eveline said, 

“I suppose he’ll be hanging about for six days. I 
don’t want to see him. I don’t want to receive his 
wild letters, or his poems, or to read the books he sends 
me—and I don’t, on my soul and honour, want to be 
unkind. What can a woman do? Tell me, Billy.” 

“It seems to be rather a question of what—people— 
should not do.” 

“You’ve said it exactly. You’re very wise some¬ 
times, my friend.” 


DEPARTURE OF MAJOR D’ARCY FAIRFAX 361 

The coffee finished, and three cigarettes, he rose 
to go. 

“Don’t make a noise going down, will you?” 

“I’m going back to Devon in three days.” 

“Why?” she asked, and he saw what he imagined 
to be a look of fear in her eyes. 

He did not reply to her question, but walked to 
the window and stared at the dimmed street below. 
She said, 

“Have you been with the Normans to-day?” 

“Yes.” 

“I see.” 

“You remember what you asked me this morning, 
when I came back from the station?” 

She leapt up, and looked straight into his face. 

“Have you been talking about me to anyone?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, I could smite you dead! You have been dis¬ 
cussing me! I can see it in your face. I also saw you 
with Mary this afternoon. Very well, go back to 
Devon with her.” 

He repeated that he would go back to his hermitage, 
but as he spoke his heart was filled with an unbearable 
pain. 

“Then go, with my blessing. Good-night, Brown- 
eyes.” 

She stretched her arms above her head, bending 
backwards, rising to her toes with an exquisite flexion. 
The arms came down slowly on his shoulders, and she 
rested her head on his coat, as though she were weary. 
He stood still, thinking of Lionel. With arms wound 
round him she confessed that never before had she 
felt such a piercing jealousy. He turned away, having 
an intense desire to rest his head on her bosom, and 


362 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

to be cherished. She was saying, “Billy, I can’t live 
without you, I can’t really. I knew it to-day. Don’t 
be cold, Billy. You are more than life to me. You 
don’t care about Mary, do you? I could have killed 
her when I saw you talking on the beach this afternoon, 
with your head so close to hers. Put your arms round 
me, Billy. You wild bird, you have caged your mis¬ 
tress. Billy, speak to me.” 

In the dark his voice murmured fearfully that he 
must go. She clung to him, and he enfolded her in his 
arms, but he did not kiss her. They stood thus for a 
minute, while he hesitated, beginning to soften with 
passion. He waited to be kissed again, but quietly 
she drew away from him and went out of the room. 
He heard the quiet closing of her bedroom door. Till 
three o’clock he was pacing swiftly the Leas, alone 
with the spaniel and the cool night wind that flowed 
tirelessly from the hills 


CHAPTER XII 


THE PATHETIC KNIGHT 

One afternoon they motored to the Rhythe military 
canal, five miles from Findlestone, and by the flat 
marshy coast where was the headquarters of a School 
of Musketry, and the deserted hutments and concrete 
hangars of an aerodrome. Hiring a skiff, he sculled 
her up the canal. She sat in the stern holding the 
rudder lines, once waving her hand to a party of blue- 
suited hospital soldiers sitting on the towpath who 
whistled and shouted remarks to them. 

“You’re all right, mate.” 

“She’s a pretty little girl from nowhere, nowhere at 
all ” chanted one. 

Another sang with lung-gassy wheeziness, “All-day 
long he — call-all-ed her, snooky-ookums.” 

“That’s a boatload fit for a hero,” remarked a wag 
with half his face shot away. 

“Company, eyes front!” ordered another, presenting 
arms with a crutch. 

She was called Lizzie, Lil, Mademoiselle from Armen - 
tieres, My beautiful ba-byee doll, and other names. 

“I love them all,” she said as he pulled through the 
weedbeds. “My heart goes out to them. I wish I 
could be everything to all men. You understand the 
feeling, don’t you, Billy?” 

He nodded, and continued to scull in the hot sun- 
363 


364 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

shine. Eventually they made fast the painter to a 
willow tree, and stepped on to the greensward. All the 
afternoon they sat under a willow, while with a yellow 
wand, a thread of cotton, and a bent pin baited with 
a bread pill he tried to catch the red-finned roach that 
passed above the submerged weed forests. She took off 
shoes and stockings, and with cotton skirt tucked up 
dabbled her toes in the coolth of the water. The rip¬ 
ples threw a soft light on her face, shaded by a large 
hat, making more lovely the glances she gave him. A 
pair of royal swans with three dun cygnets in their 
wake bore down upon them, and hove up, statelily ac¬ 
cepting the pieces of bread Eveline tossed to them. 
Then with uncovered feet they walked down the tow- 
path, taking the kettle and the teabasket, and explored 
the desolate aerodrome. They visited the officers' hut¬ 
ments now empty and littered with paper, wondering 
how fared the vanished inhabitants; what airman had 
drawn the charcoal sketches on the asbestos sheeting of 
the walls: what man had pasted up the coloured draw¬ 
ings and photogravures of actresses and Society beau¬ 
ties from The Sketch, The Tatler, and The Bystander. 
Contemplation of these dusty relics of a scattered gen¬ 
eration made them silent as they wandered from hol¬ 
low grey cubicle to hollow grey cubicle, and down the 
empty corridors, where hung scarlet fire-buckets and 
cobwebs. On the hot asphalt of the paths from one 
hut to another they ran, on their toes because of the 
heat, making a tour of these quiet places. They had 
tea in one of the lofty mechanics’ sheds, once filled by 
the sickly mist of castor oil, by the haar and roar of 
tested rotary engines. Now it was a place of mice and 
moths and dried oilpatches, with green sorrel growing 
unsunned amid rotted paper by the concrete walls, 


THE PATHETIC KNIGHT 365 

They saw a bird rustling through the grass in the shed. 
She caught it. It struggled, its heart throbbed, its beak 
gaped. It was a lark with a trailing wing, broken by 
the claw-stroke of a hawk. Tears rolled down her 
cheeks; it was so frail and thin and weak and helpless. 
His heart spilled over, and he embraced her, smoothing 
her cheek, stirred to the core of his being by her 
woman's tenderness. She leaned against him, holding 
the bird in her hands. The shoulder joint was festered. 
It fell off. The bird fluttered one ragged wing. He 
trod out the life of the earth-fallen singer. 

“How could you, Billy?” 

“Nothing is lost in earth or air.” 

“I suppose it was best.” 

“Never will I forget your angel's pity, dear, dear, 
gentle Eve.” He kissed her hands, trembling, while 
she waited. He would not look at her. 

“You torture me, Billy. But, of course, you are a 
poet, and care more for the angelic idea of me than for 
the unangelic Eveline? Funny William, so serious 
about life! The abstract is very uncomforting, my 
dear. It eases no passion. But perhaps I'm wrong. 
Perhaps your passion is wasted in dreams? Don't look 
so sad, Billy, dear.” 

She rose from her knees and kissed him on the 
mouth, but sprang up as he remained apparently apa¬ 
thetic: but when she was outside he lay down where 
she had been sitting, pressing his cheek on the cushion. 
She can probe into the very hearts of men, he sighed. 

Swiftly the long golden days perished. They went 
riding together, William having sent to Rookhurst for 
his kit. She said that he looked very distinguished 
breeched and booted and spurred; she tied and ar¬ 
ranged with deft feminine fingertouches his wihite 


366 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

stock. She rode a black thoroughbred borrowed from 
Mr. Archibald Dodder, and the old gentleman would 
wave aside the groom, himself adjusting girths and 
gtirrup leathers, seeing that cheekstrap and curbchain 
were not too tight, and throwing her up into the saddle. 
They cantered on the downs with only crows and hawks 
for company, cracking hunting whips, once startling a 
lean hare from its daydream and pretending to hunt it 
with a phantom pack of harriers, while from their 
carrion feasts the daws and pies rose raving at the 
thud of galloping hoofs. On being told of the fun, 
Jonquil begged to accompany them next time, and she 
rode between them, a blue-velvet-capped-and-brown- 
leather-gaitered sprite upon a Shetland pony. Eveline 
rode astride, tall and boyish in black riding boots, nig¬ 
ger-brown breeches and waisted coat, and gold-pinned 
stock so silk-soft under her chin. Purposely he lagged 
behind to watch the lovely centaurean grace of mother 
and daughter, which put into his heart wild pangs and 
longings. 

But usually they went without her, riding to an 
ancient downland thorn in whose scanty shade they left 
their horses. The bark of the hard branches was pared 
by the teeth of the animals tethered so long, and she 
told him that misfortune would come to them for 
bringing this hurt to the tree. It was an old saying 
in the village where she was born, she said, that thorns 
must never be injured or even climbed, otherwise they 
would bring disaster. She embraced its old twisted 
trunk, laying her cheek against the wood, as though 
silently beseeching the wood spirit to stay its wrath. 
He was so moved by her beauty that he put his arms 
about her and the thorn, pinning her against it, and 
saying that if he had the power he would shut her up 


THE PATHETIC KNIGHT 367 

within it, so that he could build himself a stone hut 
and forever have her nigh him, sharing her only with 
perching magpies and crows. She complained that he 
hurt her, and although he would comfort her she 
seemed not to realize that he was there, and turned her 
face to the tree. Nor would she tell afterwards what 
silent words her heart had spoken to it, but seemed 
vaguely to resent the questions. 

Once they sat by the grassy barrows secreting chalk 
and bone while he picked up rough flints, wondering 
whether any wild man had held them in his hand, and 
to throw them down when his mind saw no arrowheads 
in them. The flints were there, unworn by the ele¬ 
ments: the skull of the hunter was calcined dust under 
the turf: but where was the mind that had filled it? 
Her thought was not in the past; and once she ex¬ 
plained why a woman’s dreams were not like a man’s. 
She told him that while his old ancestor had sat 
hunched on those hills, wondering on that beyond the 
sealine, her old ancestress had been rubbing dried sticks 
to make fire and to roast the wood-dog in whose shaggy 
hide the hunter had driven his spear. The man 
hunted, and then was free to wonder; the woman’s 
drudge went on all the time. And after many sum¬ 
mers a man might be born who would soon tire of 
hunting, but never tire of wondering; and one day as 
he listened to the wind in the brook-reeds he cut some 
and boufid them together to blow upon and make sweet 
sounds. Or he would scratch with a flint upon the soft 
seashore stones the head of a woman, or, if he were 
mated and a father, the head of the wood-dog. After 
a while he would do these for other men, bartering 
them for deer or dog; and perhaps play his reeds at 
night, and they would bring him roasted joints; but 


36S THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

always the women had to drudge with no time to won¬ 
der about the sea and the stars, to bear children and 
have no energy for dream. 

The strange hot tide of summer lapsed slowly from 
the songless land. Never had there been such a har¬ 
vest of corn and stoneless fruit, but the root crops were 
stringy and ruined. Still no rain clouds came to the 
sky; the swallows gathered, disappearing suddenly, 
weeks before their time; rare butterflies danced on the 
downs—Painted Ladies, Swallow Tails, Camberwell 
Beauties. Mr. Everard Dodder, an enthusiastic en¬ 
tomologist, vowed that he had seen a Large Copper. 
Eveline asked him what they would say at the Police 
Station if he put it in a killing bottle, but no reply 
was given. He did not approve of herself, she told 
William, and hadn’t the wit to see any jokes. 

The leaves of the trees fell early, uncoloured, with¬ 
ered, nerveless. The hard blue sky pulsed with heat. 

Sometimes he wandered by himself; because Eveline 
had engagements with her friends. Days passed with¬ 
out him seeing her. Mr. Tollemache went riding with 
her, and took her out in a racing motor-boat he had 
managed to borrow. There were days when she was 
cold and hostile to him; he tried to determine why she 
was so different from his companion on the Corpsnout 
or by St. Flammea’s well. He refused to accept the 
obvious, the commonplace explanation. He still 
exalted her. He was nearly distracted with jealousy of 
the men who came to take her to golf at Rythe, or on 
the canal, or to motor her to the cathedral town of 
Canterbury. No idea of distrust came to him; but the 
iron bands of suffering were riveted tighter. He ate 
very little, and pride prevented him from eating any 
more meals at her house. He and Jonquil were to be 


THE PATHETIC KNIGHT 369 

seen together on the beach, or by the duck pond in 
Rador Park, sometimes with old Martha; the man 
and the child were the greatest friends. At times the 
joyousness of Jonquil quenched the smoulder of pain, 
and forgetting to think, he joyed with her—perhaps 
in the sailing of paper boats on the pond, when the 
leaves and weed on the water became the great Sar¬ 
gasso Sea, the ducks were coiling sea-serpents; the sat¬ 
urated papers became Spanish galleons with cannon 
and tarnished gilt figurehead and perhaps a white- 
bearded ragged maniac pacing in rags the rotten deck. 
Himself and Quillie, of course, were in a boat that 
could cut through the weeds; they were exploring. 

On other occasions he talked to Jonquil as though 
she were his own size; he talked naturally and simply, 
and the small girl understood, frequently declaring that 
she would marry him when he grew up, and make him 
happy by loving him all day and singing to him all 
night, and telling him adventure stories, but at present, 
she said, “Quillie’s head had them buzzin an hoppin 
about, but they won't come out properly, so you'll have 
to wait, don’t you see, Wiilum.” 

Left alone on some evenings he went round to the 
aunts, where he had to endure stoically the barked com¬ 
ments of Mr. Fairfax about British Israel and the re¬ 
lapsing of the world into the Dark Ages, intermingled 
with groans about Gloria the maid's extravagance with 
the coal in the kitchen, and the price of food, until the 
old gentleman was rendered ineffectual by the isolation 
of bedclothes. Twice the aunts were his guests at 
Corvano’s and the play: steadily his money drained 
away. One evening Eveline in a mood of impulsive 
contrition took him with her to visit Mr. Archibald 
Dodder, whom she declared to be a particular friend 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


370 

of hers, and that old gentleman, puffing into his brown 
stocktie, gave them his precious Martinez ’04 vintage 
port to drink, and hundred-year old brandy. He was 
delighted to take them to the Leas Pavilion to see the 
concert party, chuckling at the jokes and repeating 
them to Eveline vivacious by his side. His tall pale 
brother, Mr. Everard Dodder, the wearer of a monocle 
and white spats, he told them, was the most terrible 
bore in existence, always innocently enjoying himself: 
he was Chairman of the Findlestone Vigilance Society. 
Old Archie Dodder snorted his contempt of him, telling 
them that he had the mind of a maggot, bah, yes! 

Everyone in Findlestone seemed to be spending 
money, to be dancing. Young demobilized officers 
lived at the hotels, enjoying the fruits of war, or rather 
the windfalls come to them upon discharge from H. M. 
Forces—their gratuities. William’s seventy pounds 
became ten; for those meals he had at the flat he 
insisted on paying into her bank two guineas a week 
towards her housekeeping expenses. She made no men¬ 
tion of it after a preliminary protest. And one morn¬ 
ing, unable to bear the pain of neglect further, he said 
that he was going away. She came and sat by him, 
taking his head upon her bosom; wildly he implored 
her to link her life with his; openly, for her own sake; 
he said that he believed there was some money for him 
left by his dead mother, and he could get it from his 
father. It would be sufficient, he believed, for them to 
live upon quietly in a Devon cottage with perhaps a 
pony and trap. He begged her to take the final step 
and join her life with his; she said that she would lose 
her darling Quillie, that she could not bear to hurt 
Lionel. Ah, well, he sighed, and went to the station 
to ascertain the time of trains to Rookhurst, and on 


THE PATHETIC KNIGH' 371 

going back to the flat he found that Captain Patrick 
Collyer was seated in an armchair, his feet upon the 
rungs of a smaller one drawn up, an Egyptian cigarette 
between his lips, and a tumbler of whiskey-and-soda on 
the floor by his side. 





PART III 


THE BROKEN WEB 


“Save his own soul he hath no star” 
Swinburne . 




















CHAPTER I 

DREAM TRYST 


He asked William casually if he knew where Mrs. 
Fairfax was. 

“I think she's gone round to her grandfather's." 

He remained seated. He sipped his drink. William 
regarded the ribbons on the breast of his azure tunic— 
the red and blue of the Distinguished Service Order, 
with two dull silver rosettes, the purple and white of 
the Military Cross, the purple and white lines of the 
Distinguished Flying Cross, the red, white and blue of 
the 1915 star, the watered rainbow of the Victory 
Medal, the blue and yellow of the General Service 
Medal, the red-striped green of the Croix de Guerre 
avec palme, the red of the Legion d’honneur, and five 
or six foreign decorations of which he did not know the 

name. . 

“I wish you wouldn't stare at me," exclaimed Cap¬ 
tain Collyer fretfully. 

“Fm awfully sorry—I was admiring your decora- 

tions." . , . . 

“Then I wish you wouldn't—it s like being at a 

restaurant." 

“You don't mind my being in the room, I suppose r 
“I don't mind what you do, so long as you don’t stare 
at me, or expect me to have conversation with you. 

“I don’t think you could have conversation with any¬ 
one. You'd merely drawl remarks." 

375 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


376 

Captain Collyer looked sideways out of the window, 
finished his drink, and languidly poured himself 
another. 

“Has Mrs. Fairfax seen you yet?” asked William, in 
a hard voice. 

Captain Collyer yawned and drawled. “Do you 
think I’d stroll in and treat her house as an hotel, or 
a club? Why do you ask? Have you a share in it?” 

“Only a cad would say that.” 

“You are entirely mistaken, and your mistake arises 
from an ignorance of the ways of gentlemen. 
Obviously.” 

“If you aren’t careful, Collyer, I shall pitch you 
outside.” 

“That remark rather illustrates what I have just 
said. You know I am practically a cripple.” 

“I didn’t know. I beg your pardon.” 

“You are forgiven, owing to your ignorance. Have 
you been for a walk?” 

“Yes. I-•” 

“Have I interrupted it?” 

“I don’t understand, Collyer.” 

“I mean—are you going on with your walk?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Then you don’t mind if I go on with my sleep, do 
you? I am rather fatigued.” 

He finished the drink, put the tumbler on the writ¬ 
ing desk, and stretching his long legs on the chair, 
closed his eyes, sighed, and lay still. 

William went round to Radnor Park Gardens, and 
was told by Aunt Milly that Eveline had just left to go 
to the town. She would take that opportunity, she 
said, of giving him a friendly talking-to. 

It appeared that Lina had recently met a widowed 


DREAM TRYST 


377 


lady, a friend of theirs who should be unnamed, who 
had shocked and surprised Lina by telling her that she 
ought to remember that as a married woman, and with 
a husband abroad, she really could not be too careful. 
Lina was so rash and foolhardy, and was so hurt be¬ 
cause she feared that she was being talked about in 
Findlestone. Of course, people always talked, 
especially in seaside towns! Apparently Lina’s inno¬ 
cent gaiety had been mistaken by the harsh minds of 
this world. Nevertheless, when there was smoke there 
was fire, and she, Milly, as Lina’s pal and confidante, 
felt that it was an obligation to her niece and confiding 
pal, as well as her duty to her absent nephew, the son 
of her poor dead brother, to drop a hint to dear old 
guileless Billy, just as she had dropped a hint to his 
sweet cousin Phea some months back, to consider 
Lina’s reputation as a married gel and a mother. He 
must not be offended if she suggested that he went 
away for a time, and it would increase the respect for 
him of someone-she-knew-who-should-be-nameless 
(with a laughing fingershake) if that someone heard 
that he was working hard, determining to make a posi¬ 
tion ! He looked on the ground as though in deep con¬ 
templation of her words, thanked her, and went away 
hurriedly, in the direction of the town. 

After an hour’s search he went back to the flat, walk¬ 
ing up slowly owing to the heat, and because he felt 
a weariness. The rubbers on his shoes made little 
noise, and he went into the kitchen to ask Martha if 
she had returned. Hardly had he entered when Eve¬ 
line strode across the hall and in a cold voice requested 
him to go out of the servant’s hall, and to speak to her 
in the dining room. He held open the door of that 
room for her, and closed it, facing her. 


378 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“I never thought you could be so contemptible as to 
spy/’ she began, but he interrupted her by asking her 
why she had not told him that she was expecting a 
visitor. 

"That is an impertinent question,” she said, "and 
even if it were not, you have not the slightest right to 
ask it. I am not your property, remember.” 

"Eve, why are you so changed? I was not spying. I 
came up slowly because I was tired,” he assured her. 

"You have many words, and, with them, an excuse 
for everything. And as a guest in my house, what 
right have you to insult any friends that I choose to 
invite here?” 

"None whatever.” 

"Then why did you glare at Pat, and threaten to 
throw him out?” 

"I admit I lost my temper. What else could a man 
do, when he is sneered at as I was? Have you no care 
for me, that you treat me like this?” 

"Very little indeed. This last month since Lionel 
left you have been unbearable. You don’t w T ant me 
yourself, yet you follow me like a shadow, babbling 
about the purification of mankind by association in 
childhood with birds and weeds and wind, and other 
unintelligible weariness. Jonquil may be charmed by 
such dreams, my dear Billy, but for one whose mind is 
mature and healthy, they seemed pallid and—forgive 
me saying it—even degenerate.” 

He stared at her, and said as he turned away his 
head,— 

"Had you ever loved me, you would never have said 
—what you—said just now.” 

Eveline replied. "Do you mind going?” 

He did not move. Her words seemed to make the 


DREAM TRYST 379 

world recede from his feet, leaving him in a void of 
uttermost darkness. 

“Eve, Eve, don’t let us part like this. Say one kind 
word to lighten the darkness that has fallen on the 
radiant thing which was our love.” 

“You are keeping me from my friend.” 

He seized her hand and pleaded, “Don’t—don’t— 
your words are like arrows in my heart.” 

She said in a curt, expressionless voice, 

“I should have thought by the way you continue to 
remain here that your skin was too thick for my 
pointed remarks to be taken in. Will you please go?” 

He looked at her with proud humility. 

“If I were less desperate I think I would kill myself, 
but no—,” he stopped, and as she pulled away her hand 
he said despondently, “If I were dead, then never— 
never—never—could I make you understand that I 
feel about you as I think God feels about the earth 
which my—feet tread, as something—strayed from the 
Light.” 

“Words, words, words.” 

He faltered on in distress, “That is why the Light- 
bringers come among men—Eve—Eve-” 

She turned away and pulled open the door. She 
waited in the hall, tapping the barometer. He went 
out of the room and through the hall door, turning to 
whisper, 

“Farewell.” 

“Good-bye, Billy,” she said, closing the door. She 
gave him a sweet glance as he looked up at the turn of 
the stairs; he saw, and her eyes became sad. He was 
frenzied by doubt immediately. She went back to 
Captain Collyer, and he went down the stairs and 
wandered about the Leas, trying to understand what 



380 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

had happened. I know her true nature is pure and 
steadfast, he told himself a hundred agonizing times. 
She loves me, and is punishing me because I show no 
love to her. She was made to be loved, and I have 
been wrong and foolish in not writing to Lionel. This 
can’t go on. It is wrong to withhold oneself if one 
loves and is loved. A blasphemy against the Great 
Spirit! Perhaps Collyer- 

He groaned, and dared not to think it. He walked 
the Leas for hours, seeing her after tea by the band¬ 
stand with Jonquil and Captain Collyer, but she was 
too far away to notice him, and he tried to read ihis 
worn copy of The Story of My Heart constantly turn¬ 
ing to the engraving of Richard Jefferies opposite the 
title page, his only companion. He observed the figure 
of Peter White in the distance hurrying along but he 
avoided him by going down to the sea. 

As he sat on the brown pebbles one of those moods 
that come to all men and women came to him—the 
acute consciousness of the terrible loneliness of life. 
His spirit had been broken-in upon by its complement 
spirit, which had given rest and strength and joy to 
it: the old scar of the pre-Adam join had been opened, 
but now the penetrating spirit was torn away, leaving 
a wound. 

Once when he was a child William was going to be 
thrashed for destroying jay-traps in a wood, and nearly 
diswitted by terror he ran away from home for three 
days. At intervals ever since that time, when the 
world he knew rolled upon the motherless boy, he had 
longed, often poignantly, for love—visualized in 
adolescence and early youth as something bright which 
caused him to be protected and clasped in darkness. 
He had found his spirit’s consoler, and lost her again. 


DREAM TRYST 


381 

Now the brightness was gone. He tried to break the 
pebbles gripped in his hands; his desire for love was 
uncrushable like the pebbles. Till midnight he walked 
the path by the sea, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, 
hoping to meet her companionless and remorseful. She 
did not come. He went to his lodging, undressed, and 
got into bed, but he did not sleep. His mind began its 
nightly battle with reality. 

During the day reality won, but in the darkness 
dream, which could take him to regions beyond mortal 
grieving, conquered for awhile. His passionate adora¬ 
tion was for the vision of Eveline he had worshipped, 
when first he had met her; night after night he had 
tossed and turned, grieving because she appeared to be 
different from the Eve he had known in Devon, and in 
his mind unable to understand why. Night after 
night of sapped vitality, leaving him pale and languid 
for the day, and the pain it brought. But the nights 
were for him with their solace of dream. 

Only a sheet covered him, yet his body was as fiery 
as his brain. The bed was a wide one, and throughout 
the hours he shifted from one cold side to another, only 
to make it hot, especially where his head lay on the 
pillows. These he dropped on the floor, laying his head 
on the dry straw bolster, which gave no relief. Every 
thought was of Eveline in Devon, of her mirthful eyes 
and sanguine lips, tender for himself. His mind re¬ 
traced the flagstones to her house, up the steps, passed 
through the locked door, and drifted wraithlike into her 
room. Pain dragged it forth from her dark chamber. 
To other places it went with her, with an Eveline now 
freed and joyous: to meadows with celandines, the 
flowers of hope, telling that spring was coming, with its 
sweet birdsong in the very air. Hazel wands and ash- 


382 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

poles, home of the willow wrens, pollen dusting the red 
nut flowers, doves fluttering above at their raft-like 
nests, the windflowers below. Green corn asway, and 
sighing, swallows under the meadow oaks, whitethroats 
slipping through the nettles: everything come again, 
brought by the faithful English spring. All this love¬ 
liness shaping itself into one thing, and, seeing, he drew 
up his knees, as though to hug to himself the vision. 
She who saw the same vision was with him, and in a 
passionate adoration he clasped her feet, kissing them, 
wrapping his arms round her knees, till his body was 
merged into hers, his spirit commingled and absorbed, 
floating in the blue-stained air, dissolved where was no 
time, where meadow and tree hung a-dream, where 
blossom was one with root and leaf, where song and 
colour and scent became a quivering radiance of 
whitest light. With a wrenching of the mind he was 
dragged away from his prostration before the godhead 
of perfection, of pure love, to be forced to realize that it 
would never be. He beat away the batwings of imagin¬ 
ation, but return they would; he buried his head in the 
mattress, pressing his eyes, but still they persisted. He 
clasped the cold bedrails, and, kneeling, leaned his bare 
chest against the top bar. 

The house was quiet, with a deadness that bore upon 
him like onrushing oblivion. He went to the window, 
standing on cold oilcloth. A flagpost in the squalid 
backyard was black in the sky; the cord tapping against 
the wood. Here he could remain no longer. 

Lighting his candle, he dressed, and tiptoed down the 
stairs. Closing carefully the door, he walked up the 
silent and deserted street to Radnor Park Gardens. 
No lights shone in the houses; everywhere was som- 
brous thickness through which loomed the buildings. 


DREAM TRYST 


383 

He prowled round the square several times, longing to 
speak to a human creature, and sometimes kneeling 
down and embracing Billjohn, and wishing him to un¬ 
derstand. Always the same was the spaniel; humbly 
affectionate and happy, returning immediately at the 
god’s low whistle that was like the call of a curlew. 

He passed the flat, quiet like all others. The dark¬ 
ness was like the ghost of a grey fungus trying to grow 
upon him. He lit a cigarette, but it was tasteless, so 
he threw it against a garden wall, on which it showered 
red sparks. Down The Paragon he walked, across the 
High Street, and so to the Leas. Faster and faster, 
till the pathway was reached to the sea. Dropping 
down the lower promenade, he jumped on the shingle, 
lifting down the dog to him. By the edge of the sea he 
sat down, looking across the Channel waters to the 
lighthouse of Gris Nez. Spray from the battering 
waves wetted his face, and the pebbles abraded in the 
backwash roared a million watery protests. He took 
off his clothes, and stepped into the sea, bracing him¬ 
self to meet a big wave. It swept over him, leaving 
him upon the pebbles. He dived through the next 
roller and swam beyond the crest where it was calm. 
On his side he struck out for the open sea, in the direc¬ 
tion of the French coast. Stars slid in silver streaks 
up the passing swell of the black water. Half a mile 
from the land he ceased to swim, and floated on his 
back, while the waves lifted him gently, and the black 
bubble-rush murmured past his ears. With slow 
strokes he returned to the distressed dog, often rolled 
under the surge. He crawled on the pebbles to lie 
glimmering in the starlight, beside the spaniel licking 
his cold face, feeling that death was very near in the 
darkness, tender and compassionate, and ready to bear 
him away to the after-sleeping. 


CHAPTER II 


DEPARTURE OF CAPTAIN COLLYER 

It was afternoon when he went back to the flat, an 
afternoon of sunshine and gay voices in the street, but 
not for him. Jonquil was outside, waiting for Martha 
to take her for a walk, and she was amusing herself by 
feeding a flock of sparrows with crumbs. She gave him 
a sidelong smile in greeting, and continued her talk 
with the birds. 

A man in a bowler hat and a drab suit came round 
the corner from the direction of Radnor Park Gardens 
as he went up the stone steps. The man looked at him 
keenly as he went past. Another man in a bowler hat 
and a drab suit came down The Paragon from the 
direction of the Leas, on the other side of the road. 
When nearly opposite to the building wherein Eveline 
lived he stopped, and the first man turned back, joined 
him and stopped outside the house. Wondering aim¬ 
lessly why they wore such hats in the hot weather, he 
went up to the flat. The men followed. Eveline met 
them in the hall. 

“Are you Mrs. Fairfax, ma’am?” said one of the men. 

“I am. Who are you?” 

“Is there anyone named Captain Collyer with you, 
please?” 

“Yes.” 

“May I see him, please?” 

384 


DEPARTURE OF CAPTAIN COLLYER 385 

“If it is a question of a mistake in giving a cheque, 
I am prepared to settle that immediately. Captain 
Collyer told me this morning that he wasn’t sure-” 

“Just so. Perhaps the gentleman would oblige by 
coming here a minute.” 

“You’d better come in and see him. Wait in there, 
will you please? Hullo, Billy, why haven’t you been 
round before? Pat, you’re wanted in the next room.” 

Captain Collyer lounged against the chimneypiece, a 
cigarette in his hand. The man waited in the hall. 
Captain Collyer drew smoke, repeatedly, from his 
cigarette. Then he walked languidly to the door, and 
said, 

“Good afternoon. Do you want me?” 

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping in the next room a 
minute. We are from the Criminal Investigation De¬ 
partment of Scotland Yard, and want to ask you a few 
questions.” 

“My dear fellow, come in this room,” he drawled; 
and the door was shut behind him in the dining room. 

Eveline went to her desk, and pulled papers about 
till she found something she had been looking for. It 
was a cheque-book. As she did not speak, William sat 
by the open window and watched the sea above the 
narrow opening of the street leading to the Leas. 
About half a minute later the dining room door opened 
and Captain Collyer’s voice, earnestly persuasive, was 
heard saying, 

“ . . . my dear fellow, I tell you I have not just 
come from Plarrogate. My car was stolen four days 
ago; and the fellow must have driven it there and 
sold it to the garage.” 

“You can tell that to the Inspector—and to Captain 
Collyer!” 



THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


386 

“My dear fellow, I am Captain Collyer. Honestly 
I am. Air-mechanic Shiggles, the fellow you’re after, 
is my servant—or was, until he cleared off with most of 
my kit. So he’s taken to using my name as well, has 
he?” 

“You can explain that at the station. Now, come 
along before we fetch you.” 

“My dear fellow, you’re making an awful fool of 
yourself. And, remember, you can’t arrest an officer 
in uniform.” 

They were standing in the hall. Eveline looked at 
William. 

“Brown, go and get the A. P. M.,” ordered one of the 
men; the door was pushed open, and Captain Collyer 
came in, followed by the man. 

“Awful sorry, Lina,” he said in his languid tones, 
“most awful bore for you. That scamp Shiggles would 
think of masquerading as his officer. However, it will 
be all right.” 

They waited about ten minutes, and Eveline, laugh¬ 
ing once again, asked Martha to bring in some tea. 
The detective thanked her, but refused to have any. 

They finished tea, while Captain Collyer lounged by 
the grate, one hand behind him. Then someone was 
heard to be coming upstairs, and a cultured but rough 
voice said: 

“Where is he? Wait there, sa’nt.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

A short fat man came into the room in white flan¬ 
nels, over which he wore the khaki tunic of a major, 
with a red brassard marked in black letters APM. 

“How d’ye do, Mrs. Fairfax?” he panted. “Sorry 
this should have occurred in your house. Playing a 
game of tennis. Should have been informed of this.” 


DEPARTURE OF CAPTAIN COLLYER 387 

“A memorandum was delivered at your office at 10 
a.m., this morning, sir,” explained the C.I.D. man. 

“Was it, was it? Well, is this the impostor? I put 
you under arrest,” he puffed, wiping his brow. 

“Major Cornwallis, I’m sure there’s some mistake,” 
protested Eveline. “I’ve known Captain Collyer for a 
long time.” 

“He’s been a deserter since Armistice Day,” replied 
the detective grimly, “and his other names at Bourne¬ 
mouth, Torquay, Brighton, and Eastbourne are Comp¬ 
ton McCudden and Perceval Capel, both with those 
ribbons and the rank of Captain.” 

“Awful sorry you should be worried, Lina,” said Cap¬ 
tain Collyer. “I suppose I’d better go. Of course, I’ll 
come back shortly. It’s rather fortunate that my father 
is a director of the Northcliffe Press, because every¬ 
thing can be given proper publicity, even an account of 
my arrest by an Assistant Provost Marshal in tennis 
flannels—damned dirty ones, too!” 

“You impertinent scoundrel,” panted Major Corn¬ 
wallis. “Take off those orders.” He went to Captain 
Collyer, and tore off his ribbons. 

“Well, I couldn’t tear off yours with such a noise, 
could I?” enclaimed the prisoner, eyeing the lonely and 
insignificant bit of colour on the A. P. M.’s breast. 

“Hold your tongue, sir!” bellowed the A. P. M. 

“Oh, very well, sir,” drawled the other, “very well. 
It will not be myself who will be cashiered, sir. Do 
you mind calling a cab? I’m entitled to one, you know. 
What? Haven’t you read King’s Regulations? Au 
revoir, Lina; and my regrets for this unfortunate ex¬ 
hibition of ill-breeding and unsoldierly conduct on the 
part of Major Cornwallis. Don’t trouble to come to 
the station, sir,” speaking with a cold sneer to the A. P. 


388 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


M. “Why not return to your game of tennis? But 
mind they don’t mistake you for the ball! Personally 
I should think a turkish bath would get off those rolls 
of fat quicker.” 

Eveline was staring at the speaker with amazement. 
The suave manner, the tired drawl, the impassive 
languor, all these were gone. He spoke his sarcasms 
quickly, in a voice that held a suggestion of cockney 
coarseness. 

“One moment, sir,” said the plain-clothes man. 
May I see his left hand? There should be a finger 
missing. Yes, I thought so.” 

“Probably done to avoid service!” panted Major 
Cornwallis, who wore, William noticed, no war chev¬ 
rons, and no ribbons except the blue and red of the 
Coronation Medal. 

“That,” said the prisoner, scornfully, holding up his 
hand, ‘ was shot off by the Calvary-Captain Baron von 
Richthofen. There’s been a war, you know, and some 
of us have got hurt. And some of us have got fat!” he 
jeered at the A.P.M. 


Long after all were departed Eveline stood by the 
window, looking at the narrow strip of sea beyond the 
promenade. Quietly William sat down, waiting for 
her to speak. She stood so still and for so long that he 
grew restless, and went out to see Martha, The 
servant did not seem inclined to speak to him after her 
one remark—“He was always a perfect gentleman to 

me, mister, and more I can’t never say of no one”_so 

he went back. 

“Billy.” 

“Yes, Eve.” 


“You didn’t tell them he was here, did you?” 
“No.” y 


DEPARTURE OF CAPTAIN COLLYER 389 

“On your honour?” 

“On my honour—such as it is.” 

“He need not have lied to me,” she said slowly: “I 
often wondered. Once, when Lord Spreycombe was 
here, he asked him something about Eton, and when 
Pat seemed flustered and avoided the question,; I 
doubted. No, there was no need for him to lie to me. 
I knew he was hard up. I would have given him all I 
could spare just the same. Why didn’t he trust me? 
You see,” she added, looking him straight in the eyes, 
“I keep no friends.” 

She spoke forlornly, lowering the glance of her eyes, 
spoke with a gesture of heaviness. Sinking on the 
couch, she added, 

“I begin now to realize the worth and truth of that 
injured man—my husband.” 

At her words he walked up and down the room, 
while she lay with her face on her arm in an unhappy 
attitude. For some minutes he paced restlessly, then 
went into the dining room, looking at the pictures on 
the walls, at the photographs, at the water-colour 
paintings. A giddiness as though of labour too long- 
continued came over him, and he sat down, resting his 
head on hands supported by his knees. Somewhere a 
clock chimed six times, but he did not move. Thd 
minutes wasted. A step sounded by him, a hand 
caressed his hair. He remained unmoving. 

“Look up, old fellow,” she said; “I’m sorry I was so 
beastly to you.” 

He stood on his feet, facing her. 

“Eve, Eve—” was all he could falter for a minute. 
The upward look in her eyes was steady and grave. 
He wanted to kneel at her feet, to say that he could 
live unloved no longer. When he could speak steadily 


390 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

again he tried to conceal by a half-playful manner the 
desolation of his thoughts. “Why, you dear old silly, 
you will never find happiness your way—you will break 
your own heart.” She said, examining the top round 
leather button of his coat, and biting it gently with 
her teeth, 

“I shan’t break yours, that’s a sure thing, for you 
haven’t got one.” 

She laid her head sideways against his coat, as 
though to hear his heart beating. He pressed it there 
with his hands, stammering, 

“Won’t you trust me, Eve? Won’t you trust me? I 
will be faithful for ever.” 

“But you don’t trust me.” 

“Yes, yes, I do.” 

Her arms found a way under his coat and held him. 

“Ah, but you are wild and untamable, and in my 
longing I hated you, and shot my spiteful arrows at 
your faithful heart. You have no shield against me, 
have you, little W-Willum?” 

He shook his head, not daring to tell her how he 
longed to grovel before her, to surrender himself to her 
love-will. She became remorseful, and hugged him 
closer. On the wall in front of him was a photographic 
enlargement of Lionel. His happiness drained away as 
he stared at it, leaving in his unshielded heart strange 
barbs of pain. 


CHAPTER III 


DOLOR DECRESCIT 

After supper they sat by the open window as twilight 
stole up the street and dissolved the harsh fronts of 
the houses. They held hands, but did not speak. The 
street lamps winked brighter, and shadows were thrown 
by the big light over the crossroads. Martha had fin¬ 
ished washing up, and sat with arms folded in the 
kitchen on a wooden chair. Jonquil was in bed and 
sleeping. 

Eveline gently withdrew her hand from his listless 
clasps, and stood up, saying in a quiet voice that she 
was going for a walk down by the sea. He stood up and 
walked to the door, opening it for her. She passed out 
with a murmur of thanks and went into her room to 
get a fur coat, for the early autumn evening was chilly. 
He waited outside in the hall, leaning against the wall 
and immediately falling into a reverie; and when he 
heard her voice calling his name, he started up and 
said, 

“Hullo?” 

“Come here a minute, Billy.” 

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The 
room was in darkness, except for the wefted lights of 
streetlamps on the ceiling. She was standing still by 
the wardrobe. He looked at her, 

“Come here, Billy.” 


391 


392 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


The seductive tone of her command made his heart 
beat quicker, and his mouth became dry. He went to 
her, where she stood with her fur coat thrown open 
and the fragrance of an eastern scent seeming to steal 
upon him like the whispered breath of desire. He 
touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, and 
smoothed her eyebrows; he stroked her hair and made 
the tips of fingers and thumbs meet round her neck, 
but the contact was light. 

“Well, Eve, what do you want me for?” he said with 
mouth nearly closed, and taking his hands from her 
neck. 

“Be the darling Billy you were in Devon,” she 
murmured. 

He bent his trembling knees so that their faces al¬ 
most touched, and his eyes were level with hers. In 
the dimness her features were immobile and marble- 
chaste—the brow made whiter by the dark hair above 
it, the large eyes with their black lashes, the lips that 
she moistened as he held her face in his hands and 
tilted her head. 

“Are you going to marry me?” he asked; “if you say 
yes, I will kiss your sanguine lips as they have never 
been kissed before. And I will go and tell my father 
everything, and take you with me so that when he sees 
you he will realize what you are, and rejoice for the 
sake of his son. And I will write to Lionel, and tell 
him that I love you, and that you love me. For you 
do love me, don’t you?” 

She nodded her head, and sighed. 

“Your eyes are like the breast of the little wild gray 
wood dove,” he murmured, 

“Darling W-Willum,” he heard her whisper as 
though from her breast. 


DOLOR DECRESCIT 393 

“And you must write to Lionel, too, because you 
promised. It will hurt him, but it will be honest”— 
and he thought, what will he do, for she is of women 
the most lovely!—“And my love shall guard you till 
that time when you will be free to come to me without 
fret or remorse. I will go to-morrow and tell my 
father and then to London and work for you!” 

“Kiss me,” she murmured. 

“Not now, Eve.” 

“Have you forgotten how soft my lips are?” 

“Be patient, Eve.” 

“I am young, Billy,‘and I am just a woman like any 
other who has youth. I cannot help wanting to be 
loved, especially by you, Billy.” 

“Let us wait in loving trust, dearest Eve.” 

“I want our love now.” 

He turned from her roughly, and she said, 

“Billy, don’t think too much about ethics. You are 
fighting against God, or trying to! Who is being con¬ 
ventional now?” 

“I am thinking of you, Eve, and also of Lionel.” 

“And of your silly little vision.” 

“No. I was trying to be unselfish. I have not made 
myself understood. I—I speak from my heart, and try 
to be less weak, for your sake, and you reply, ‘silly little 
vision.’ ” 

“You can’t care for me very much if you prefer your 
principles—which, apparently, you have just made for 
yourself since you came into this room—if you prefer 
your principles to my kisses. For that is what you 
really mean. You have a tremendous desire to reform 
me, I know, and I suppose it is a very worthy one, but 
I think that if you would realize that a woman is a 
woman, and not a Francis Thompson’s dream or a 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


394 

Swinburne's Dolores, you would be nearer to universal 
truth. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but so many 
men have tried to improve my third-rate brain with 
their first-class minds that my poor head can't hold 
any more!" 

He made no reply. 

“Well, Billy, are you going to sulk?" 

He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He rose 
abruptly and put an arm round her shoulders, pulling 
her to him. The room seemed cold. 

“Oh, no, you don't! Do you think you alone have 
feelings? You can’t snub a woman when she is in 
tenderest mood and make her curl up with shame and 
then expect her to melt for you at your first regretful 
impulse. No, Billy!" * 

“I think we are looking at things from different view¬ 
points," he said. 

“A wonderful discovery! I do feel flattered! I’ve 
been telling you the same elemental truth about man 
and woman ever since I met you, and you, with your 
wayward disregard of all other opinions except the ones 
you happen to hold at any particular moment, never 
listened! You have just discovered that B comes after 
A in the alphabet of love, and you impart to me your 
wonderful discovery—to me, w T ho knows all the letters 
and their possible combinations backwards. Well, my 
words fall on stony ground. But I know one thing, 
William, and that is that when you're dead-old you 
will look back on your visit to Findlestone and wonder 
why you were such a fool as to turn your nose up at a 
young woman’s offer. Now I'm going down by the sea 
to be alone. No, don't you dare to touch me! Let me 
pass, please! Thank you." 

She went out of the flat, and he wandered into the 


DOLOR DECRESCIT m 

drawing room. From the open window he watched her 
running down the stone steps, and along the lamplit 
street to the Leas. She faded into the night, and when 
his straining eyes could see her no more he sprang up 
from the floor where he had been kneeling and 
followed. 

He went down to the lower promenade, peering at 
the couples whispering under the trees. He met her 
almost at once, and as he had dreaded, she was with a 
man. He would have passed, but she said gaily, 

“Hullo, Billy.” 

“Good-evening, Lina,” he replied, happy in his relief 
that she had not snubbed him. Her companion was an 
old gentleman. 

“Do you know my friend Captain Maddison, Sir 
Rudolph?” she said to him. “Billy, this is Sir Rudolph 
Cardew.” 

With the courtly and reserved manner which for 
more than half a century had been part of his nature, 
the veteran and retired actor-manager swept off the 
black hat which was one of the classic sights of Findle- 
stone and Piccadilly. Throughout the races and tribes 
of the world, with their varied and multitudinous 
head-dresses, no hat similar in height, breadth, and 
length was like the hat specially made for and worn by 
Sir Rudolph Cardew. It was a fourth-dimension hat. 
It was black, and at a casual glance appeared to be a 
bowler hat; but its crown was the shape of an acorn. 
Sir Rudolph’s beautiful white hair was long and thick, 
and when both hands were not behind him as he walked 
with all the world for stage, one was moving an ebony 
stick as though it were a wand, and the other was strok¬ 
ing his beautiful moustache. He wore a black cape and 
a black-framed monocle, and spoke in the rich clear 


396 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

voice of one who had known every joy and sorrow, and 
with a magnanimous calm was allowing life to pass him 
until death should come. 

“How do you do, Maddison?” the old gentleman 
said, placing his hat on his head and confirming an im¬ 
aginary spell with his stick. “The leaves are falling, 
pushed by the buds of a new generation. No longer are 
the airs of the night warm. When will come the rain, 
an old man wonders.” 

Thinking that he was asked a question, William 
made a hazard that the rain would come at the full of 
the moon; but when he realized that Sir Rudolph 
expected no reply to his soliloquy, he broke off in the 
middle of his answer. 

“Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax, I am forced to admit that what 
you were saying just now is, alas, true. Why, my little 
grand-daughter has but one idol, and who do you think 
that idol is? Why, Miss Mary Pickford. The buds of 
the new generation! Well, Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax, al¬ 
though I have no wish to depreciate the kinema, may 
an old man who knows you be allowed to say that 
mildly, ah, mildly, he would deprecate the loss of a 
charming voice. What do you think, Maddison, of the 
ambition of Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax to become an actress 
for the kinema?” 

The old gentleman removed his monocle and swung 
it on its black riband; and before William could think 
of a suitable reply he said that he was going home up 
the path, and with a sweep of his original hat was gone. 

“What a decent old boy,” said William, walking be¬ 
side her. “But are you going to be an actress for the 
movies?” 

“No, I made it up,” she replied shortly. 

They walked for a quarter of a mile silently in star- 


DOLOR DECRESCIT 


397 

light, and then he said that he was sorry he had upset 
her. She took his arm, and was her dear self again. 

“W-Willum, I am a beast to you. And you are so 
decent to me.” 

In her fur coat she was so warm and luring that he 
swung her round and enfolded her for a kiss, but she 
put the back of her hand over her mouth and 
whispered. 

“No. No. You mustn’t, W-Willum! Not here. 
Someone may see us. O Billy, you are naughty.” 

“You are going to be my wife, dearest girl, and so 
why does it matter? I see things from your point of 
view now. I am a man and I love you: you are my 
mate. Somehow I felt as soon as I met you in Merlin 
quarry on the Corpsnout that you were the one I had 
always longed to meet. Dear Eveline, the longing is 
now stronger than ever before. I can see stars shining 
in your eyes.” 

“W-Willum, why aren’t you always like this?” 

He said nothing, but squeezed the arm he held. He 
thought that nowadays she was seldom like that to 
him; but the fault obviously lay with himself. In 
future he would make his dream a thing apart from the 
world of men and women; and even as in ecstatic hap¬ 
piness after so much repressed misery he resolved to 
make it so, he knew that the longing for the happiness 
of all in the world would remain with him to the end. 
To Eveline he said, 

“I am happy because one human being seems at last 
to understand me.” 

“Not because Eve is with you?” 

“Because Eve is with me in spirit I am free as the 
wind to-night—the wind that passes not the humblest 
leaf in scorn.” 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


398 

She said, to punish him a little more, 

“Poof, your mouldy old spirit. Still harping on that 
string? I’m going home. Nighty-night, Weary 
Willie!” 

He was left alone. He wandered on the deserted path 
and sat down on the steps of the seawall. He leaned 
against the stone pillar, and the wind bore him away, so 
that he was a boy again, speaking to the brook his thin 
legs had so often leapt. The sun sparkle was there as of 
old; soon would come the swallows, the darling swal¬ 
lows, to change it into song. Under the current waved 
the green water grasses, the reeds swayed to the wind. 
A kingfisher passed over the shining stream; a silver 
dace leapt for a fly. On the hawthorns the buds were 
opening; chaffinches were singing in every bush. 
Borne on the south wind the bees hummed to the 
woodland bluebells. The faithful English spring! 
Faithful to bring the early speedwell beside the cart- 
track, faithful to lead the windflower through the dead 
leaves, and the green woodpecker laughing in the glade. 
The country was faithful and unchanging; never would 
it betray the dreams it gave. 

The stone of the pillar was cold and rough to his 
cheek; the wind made ragged his hair as he stared 
over the sea. He thought of the loved nightingale in 
the April woods; star-breath was in their voices, and 
listening, he might keep dream-tryst with an Eve freed 
and joyous. He wonder if his friend Jack, dead in the 
war, was near him in the wind. Or his unknown 
mother, who had given life, and fled from the world. 
The night wind passed him, cold in its embrace, pure in 
its caress, and bore away his sighing. 

He met Eveline on the Leas. She was sitting on a 
seat, hatless, her hands in the pockets of her fur coat. 


DOLOR DECRESCIT 


399 

He deliberately made his tone gay, and asked her why 
she had run away from him. She shrugged her shoul¬ 
ders, and said she was cold, and was going home. 

He walked beside her, putting his hand in her pocket 
and holding her fingers. She responded to him, and 
their fingers interlocked. Outside the flat he was about 
*to stop, but she held on to his hand and said with a 
firmness that thrilled him, 

“No, I shall not let you go this time.” 

He felt small, and yielded to her cherishing will. 
They walked up the stairs, finding the light burning in 
the kitchen, and old Martha with crossed arms and 
forward head dozing on the hard chair. “Oh, Marty, 
you poor dear, go to bed,” said Eveline, kissing her, but 
she insisted on making them coffee, and serving it to 
them in the drawing room. Wearily she set down the 
tray, and wearily went upstairs. 

“Now, I must go, too,” he said, rising when the 
coffee was finished. 

“No, you mustn’t,” she replied, looking at him with 
bright eyes. 

“But I can’t sleep here,” he replied, in confusion and 
shy of her. 

“Are you tired?” she asked, holding her face near 
him, and putting her arms round his chest. “Poor 
Billy, I have worn you. I am a destructive force of 
life, the life that I so love. I realized it to-night, when 
you were striving to please me. Billy, you touched 
my heart.” 

She heard his quieted sigh. 

“I know why you sighed. Because your heart is 
touched all the time on my behalf and for others; and 
mine is too shallow to bear much stronger.” 


400 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

The adorable head was bowed before him, and wist¬ 
fully she said, 

“Just do one thing more to please me?” 

“Only one thing more, Eve?” 

“Only one. I want you to come on the roof with me, 
under the same stars that we saw in Devon.” 

“Not the same, Eve. They were summer stars.” 

He carried up a lion’s skin and some rugs, and they 
climbed through the window. On the dewy roof she 
spread it, telling him to lie down and to take off his 
shoes. She tucked a rug round him. 

“You are my little boy to-night, Willum.” 

She took off her own shoes and lay next to him, 
wrapping a rug about herself and throwing a loose one 
over them both and drawing it up to their chins. 

He lay very still. In the west a half moon was sink¬ 
ing into a battlement of chimney pots, black against 
the sky. Her hands sought his, and held. 

“Are you cold, Li’l W-Willum?” 

“No.” 

She asked no other questions. He stirred unrest- 
fully, and she asked him to have her fur coat for pillow. 
He said hoarsely, 

“No, not that inanimate coat. But I will have your 
hair for a pillow.” 

# She pulled the hem of his rug from under her side of 
him, and snuggled under it. He turned and unbound 
her hair, running it through his fingers trembling in 
ecstasy. He was intensely conscious of its feminine 
softness. He bound his eyes with it, seeing in a misty 
net the stars that seemed to be watching him stead¬ 
fastly. The peculiar fragrance of the tangled tresses 
gave him a sensation of drawing down star-breath for 
his mortal breathing. The cold cheeks were near his 


DOLOR DECRESCIT 


401 

own that burned as with fever, and he turned to her, 
hiding his head on her bosom, feeling weariness and 
doubt slipping away, and felicity soothing him. He 
lay with his brow against her throat, wondering if he 
could keep back the surrendering words of love that 
sought to pour themselves from his lips. He felt that 
his former longing for her was only a shadow of his 
feeling now. He smothered his face in her hair, turning 
away from the stars, and put his arms round her, mur¬ 
muring with hot breath against her chin. 

“Care for me for ever and ever. I have no refuge, 
no harbour. Hold me in your arms, and protect me. 
Wound me no more, or I shall die. Say that you love 
me, darling Eve. I feel as though the sky were press¬ 
ing on my brain. Pity me. I can’t bear any more 
suspense—really I am very weak, not strong like you.” 

She held him close as though he were a small child 
that needed love and sleep in warm arms to soothe 
away fear-of-loss and night-fret. 

“Let me love you,” he whispered. 

“My love is worthless, Willie dear,” she said gently. 
“Just lie quiet, and rest your poor brain.” 

He lay in her arms, then struggled free to kiss her 
throat and mouth, while feebly she strove to hide her 
face, but she was leashed by her tresses. 

“Nevermore to hear your voice, to feel you near me, 
to touch your lips: I cannot bear it,” he groaned. 
She began to weep, and he leaned over her, kissing the 
tears with his hot dry lips, beseeching her love. 

“Billy, I’m not worthy of your love; really I’m not.” 

“Kiss me, Eve.” 

“I believe that is all you care about me.” 

“I love you, Eve.” 

“You say so, but how can you, knowing all about 


402 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


me? Yet I am young, and have learned a lot the last 
few months.” 

He was masterful. She suddenly relaxed, she 
yielded. 

“No,” she breathed, “I’m frightened.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Of course you're not frightened!” 

“Then why should you be?” 

“Oh, you infant! Billy, darling, supposing, sup¬ 
posing-” 

She whispered in his ear, and he said, “What makes 
you afraid makes me happy, happy, happy! I shall 
write and tell Lionel I love you to-morrow when I go 
back home. O Eve, I do love you so.” 

“Tell me how much,” she breathed. 

“I love all beautiful things, and best of all I love 
you,” he murmured. 

“W-Willum,” her voice seemed to throb, as the gold 
moon sank below the black battlements of the chim¬ 
ney pots. 

When he awoke, his spirit was tranquil as the stars 
paling in the heavens. Eastwards over the houses the 
sky was touched with rosewater, for the first brush of 
the sun curving over the world was washing from the 
sky the stains of night. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE VISIT TO BOOKHURST 

He did not telegraph to his father when the next morn¬ 
ing he set out by rail to Rookhurst in order to tell him 
that the most important thing in life, the finding of 
his life’s partner, was accomplished. On arrival at his 
home many hours later he found only Biddy there. 
When the foster-mother’s joyous surprise was over, 
he was able to learn that his father was fishing in the 
longpond. This surprised him, and he walked along 
recollected footpaths by hedges and across fields till he 
came to the gentle slope that went down to the beech- 
wood on the other side. 

Once it had been a forest ; rooks had many colonies 
there, and in past autumns their black cawing arose 
with the jactitating cries of daws and the clatter of 
pigeon wings in the branches. The forest had gone, 
the long three miles of it, except for thin and scattered 
boles of immature growth. Nowhere could he hear a 
rook. They were gone, too, and in their place were 
white and cracked chips of wood and round sawn tree- 
stumps, everywhere dulled by weather. As he went 
along a wheelbroken path, of yore so thickly mossed 
and acrackle with mast, he passed a shed of corrugated 
iron and concrete, with locked doors, and peering in 
one of the windows he saw the gas-engines that had 
driven the circular saws. Quickly he walked on, closing 
403 


404 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

his memory, forcing himself to believe that he did 
not care. 

Around the lake the timber had not been thrown. 
Alders and willows, hawthorns and oaks, elderberries 
and ashtrees, these remained as before. He walked 
along the shore and on the dry path under firs and 
elmtrees, searching for his father. By the tumbling 
boathouse he found him, sitting against a tree in the 
shade, reading. A long and warped bamboo rod was 
fixed on the bank in rests cut from a hazel. Billjohn 
growled, the angler looked up, put down the book 
after carefully noting the page and closing it, and 
stood up. Father and son smiled. 

Externally Mr. Maddison had not changed much 
during the war. He was still tall and lean, wearing a 
tweed suit that had been turned, the trousers rolled 
up twice, so that the tops of his heavy shooting boots 
were seen. He wore a fisherman’s tweed hat that had 
been his father’s, yet it seemed no older than the rod 
or the book. The gold watchchain still hung in his 
waistcoat; his eyes were clear and deep below the 
lined brow; but more grey showed in his beard. 

“Well, Willie.” 

“Good-morning, Father.” 

“This is most unexpected.” 

“Yes.” 

The conversation paused. The son looked at the 
float among the waterlily leaves ten yards from the 
bank, immobile in the calm water, of blue-painted 
cork and slender swanquill. He recognised it as one 
made by himself. 

“I borrowed your rod and tackle,” said the father; 
“I hope you don’t mind.” He began to speak to Bill¬ 
john, and to fondle him. 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 


405 


“Rather not. Have you caught anything?” 

“Only a couple of roach. I’m trying for carp.” 

“It’s very hard to get them. But this is a good 
place.” 

“I remember my brother Dick caught one here once. 
Six pounds. I’ve got on a broad bean.” 

“A blackberry might be useful at this time of the 
year.” 

“Yes, I thought of that.” 

“Have you put down ground bait?” 

“Yes, two days ago.” 

They watched the float for a minute, while Mr.. 
Maddison filled a pipe. Afterwards he offered his 
pouch to his son, who thanked him and packed his own 
charred and chipped briar. Blue skeins of smoke 
drifted from them, and between puffs the father asked 
the son how long he had been in Rookhurst. 

“About an hour. I came by a slow train—awful— 
stopped at every station.” 

“I expect you are tired.” 

“No.” 

“Is that your spaniel? He is a well-bred dog.” 

“Yes, that’s Billjohn.” 

“He’s like old Fidelis, somewhat. Your mother’s 
dog. But I suppose you don’t remember him.” 

“Yes, I do. He died when you—when I-” 

“Yes, he’s been dead a long time, poor old Fidelis. 
I’ve always intended getting another, but somehow I 
haven’t. Yes. Yes, that’s a fine dog. Intelligent. Is 
he broken into field work?” 

“A little, a very little. You can have him.” 

“But he’s yours; you mustn’t give away your dog.” 

“But I’d like you to have him. He’d be happier, 
here.” 


406 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Aren’t you stopping very long?” 

“Well, Father, I came really for the day, just to 
see how you were, you know, and also to have a talk 
with you about something. That is, if it wouldn’t 
bore you, but I would like your advice, that is, if 
you would give it?’ He spoke nervously, and watched 
the float, which never moved. 

Mr. Maddison said simply, 

“I should only be too glad to help you in any way I 
could.” 

“Thank you, Father. The wagtails seem happy, 
don’t they?” 

In twos and threes they were passing over the water, 
dipping their breasts with the faintest splash and mak¬ 
ing a sunny flicker of ripplets. Sometimes one would 
perch on a broad leaf of the waterlily, to take a gnat 
or fly. Waterfowl lay in the middle of the broad mere, 
near Heron’s Plume Island; they were asleep and 
silent. A pigeon from the opposite shore flew towards 
them, but suddenly alarmed, it clapped its wings over 
its head like the snap of seasoned sticks and clat¬ 
tered off. 

“Yes, they love the water. I often come here to 
watch them.” The water was low, and greenish-white 
vegetation hung dry in the lower branches of the 
waterside trees. 

“How is Colonel Tetley, father?” 

“Not very well, poor old chap. He had a stroke in 
the spring. Old Bob died only last month. You 
remember him, of course.” 

“Oh, Father!” 

“He was found in the rearing field, sitting on his log.” 

“Old Bob?” 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 407 

“Yes. I suppose you’ve been to Skirr Farm, and 
heard the glad news?” 

“No, I came straight here to find you, Father.” 

“They’ve got a baby boy.” 

“Who? Mrs. Temperley. How awfully splendid!” 

“I’m his godfather,” confessed Mr. Maddison. “His 
name is John William—after their fallen son, and 
yourself. So you see you will have a great responsi¬ 
bility. Mr. Temperley bought a paraffin motor-plough 
on the strength of it.” 

“I must go and see them. I am so very glad—there 
will be a Temperley to farm the Big Wheatfield.” He 
added as an afterthought, “But he won’t climb the 
Rookery. Father, it seems so strange without our 
beeches.” 

He replied that everyone lamented the deforestation. 

“I used to talk to some of the Canadian lumbermen 
who came over specially to fell trees. They were splen¬ 
did fellows. A pity, but it had to be; everybody had 
to give during the war. I know it’s natural to think 
of the past and to feel that the present can never hold 
such happiness. Yet it is the present that is reality.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“What is your trouble, Willie?” 

“Oh, nothing much, father. I’ll tell you later. It’s 
such an awfully long story, and I hardly know where 
to begin.” 

“Have you known her very long?” 

“Who?” stammered William. 

“The girl you are going to tell me about. What is 
the matter? Does her mother regard you as totally 
ineligible?” 

“I haven’t seen her mother yet.” 


408 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Mr. Maddison replied by a laconic “Oh,” and 
played with Billjohn. 

“Is she fond of the spaniel?” 

“Of Billjohn? Oh, very fond, father.” 

“Is she? Now, I rather suspect that a roach is 
nibbling that broad bean. I shall reel-in, I think, and 
try another bait.” 

“I expect they will be near the surface, father. It’s 
a good plan to throw a branding worm, fly-fashion, 
so that it dangles over a lily leaf. Father, she is the 
sweetest woman in the world.” He looked on the 
ground, and nervously kicked over a tin of bread paste. 

“Would you mind kicking this box of broad beans 
instead?” asked Mr. Maddison, meaning to be humor¬ 
ous. “I haven't yet tried the bread paste. Although 
I don’t suppose it will be much good. They’re not 
going to bite, that’s what’s the matter. So she is not 
bad-tempered, you say?” 

The son took out an envelope, and impulsively thrust 
forward a photograph from it, saying casually, 

“Well, you can see for yourself.” 

“Just a minute; I think I’ve got a bite.” 

He struck with the top of the rod, and pulled out a 
piece of waterweed hanging to the hook. 

“As I thought, those roach have been nibbling. Just 
a minute. I’ll reel-in. I’ve got deer-fat rubbed on the 
line to make it float. It keeps it dry, too. Now may 
I see the goddess?” 

“Here’s another one, Father. Taken on horseback. 
She is a splendid horsewoman.” 

“Yes, she certainly looks very pretty. That’s a 
nice animal, too. Good shoulder, plenty of bone. Is 
it hers?” 

“No, it was lent by a friend.” 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 


409 

“I see. Yes, I can see her face better in this other 
photo. She certainly is a beauty, but photographs 
can be so deceptive. Is she coming to Rookhurst?” 

“Oh, no Father,” said William in alarm: “she’s in 
Findlestone.” 

“You met her with your friends there, I suppose. 
But, Willie, I don’t want to interfere in any way, be¬ 
cause you are a man now with your own life before 
you; yet I feel I ought to say that you should not think 
of marriage until you are assured of enough money to 
keep a wife. Unless, of course, the lady is wealthy, 
and you are prepared to sink your ordinary feelings 
of manhood and live on her money. It’s very often 
done, I believe.” 

“I don’t think she’s got any money of her own, 
Father.” 

“So much the better, my boy. You will be able to 
feel later on that you have worked for her. I’m talk¬ 
ing too much. Perhaps you’ve come to have a yam 
with me about getting a job?” 

“Yes, I have, Father, among other things.” 

“I’m jolly pleased, Willie. Often I have felt that 
I have been—well, too, too, well—that in my hope for 
you to do well in life I have been over-anxious. Be¬ 
cause I’m a failure myself, I suppose.” Mr. Maddison 
commenced to knock out from his pipe the tobacco 
that he had recently lighted; and, having tapped it 
out, he continued to rap the bowl on his heel, so that 
his voice came from an averted head. “Old chap, 
you’ve done so splendidly during the war, and I realized 
when you were fighting, and I was digging potatoes, 
that I—well, that you—I mean, that we’d gone a bit 
too far apart, and that it was my fault for not having 
understood you. I don’t know.” 


410 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“It was my fault, Father; really it was. I never 
told you anything, because I daren't, being too much 
of a coward. Aren't you going to fish any more?" 

“I don’t think so. The water is too bright, and 
too low. Well, I'm very pleased to see you again, 
Willie. What's it like in Findlestone?" 

“Awfully hot." 

“But I suppose you don’t notice the weather very 
much, do you? Bathe a lot, I suppose?" 

“Yes." 

“Well, one is only young once. We’ll talk about the 
future another time, shall we?" 

“Thank you, Father," said William, relieved. 

After lunch he tried to make himself tell his father 
that Eveline was already married. During the meal 
Mr. Maddison had asked the name of his ladylove, and 
on being told that it was Fairfax he had concluded 
that she was a relative of “his friends," but William 
had replied nothing. So afterwards he said he would 
go for a stroll, which consisted of a walk to the Nor¬ 
mans' as quickly as he could step. 

He arrived hot, and found Mrs. Norman alone. 
After greeting him, she asked if he were coming home 
for good. 

“No, only for a few days," he answered. 

“And then are you going back to Findlestone?" 

“Yes, Mrs. Norman." 

“Well, you ought not to. Mrs. Fairfax will do you 
no good at all. She is a—a bad woman!" 

Her face went pale as she spoke, and she avoided 
looking at him. He rose from his chair, passed his 
hand across his head several times, and when he could 
master his voice he said quietly, 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 411 

“She is a lady, Mrs. Norman, who is going to be 
my wife. Will you listen to me, please?” 

“Certainly, Willie. But I really don’t think that 
talking will make any difference.” 

Briefly he told her about Devon, ceasing when Mrs. 
Norman laughed sceptically, and feeling rage: his rage 
passed, leaving a cold dislike. 

“Forgive my laughter, Willie, but it is so comical.” 

He replied, “What makes you laugh, Mrs. Norman, 
is agony to others. And surely laughter and scorn have 
no place in the intimate confidences between friends?” 

“Well, you never had a sense of humour. But I’m 
sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings; but, my dear boy, do 
consider, how can you marry that woman? Is her 
husband dead?” 

“No, Mrs. Norman, but we love each other, and he 
must divorce her.” 

“That is not very easy, I can assure you. Is he 
willing to divorce her?” 

He could reply nothing. 

“Willie, you will mess up your life, or rather, Mrs. 
Fairfax will do it for you. But it is to be expected 
of one of peasant blood.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Mrs. Fairfax was born in a cottage at Snedlebarum, 
four miles away, my dear Willie. Her real name is 
Eve or Evie, as she was called, and her mother’s name 
is, or was before she died, Caw—one of the Caws of 
Snedlebarum—an idle, vicious lot. She has no—er— 
father; at least, he was not married to her mother. 
That, in brief, is the origin of Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax. 
But, of course, she has told you already?” 

He did not answer. 


412 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“Harry will be in shortly, so you can talk to him,” 
said Mrs. Norman; “you will probably think him more 
sympathetic than I am, but he can’t desire you to be 
happy more than I do. And I’ve told you the plain 
truth. I say nothing about your relations with the 
husband, although you assured me on more than one 
occasion that he was one of your best friends. Willie, 
Willie, why don’t you go straight?” 

And having made this appeal she left him alone. 
He went into the garden, and lay in the hammock, in 
the shade of the walnut tree. He had a desire to rush 
out of the house, and go immediately back to Findle- 
stone. With the desire came a feeling of ravagement, 
and a wild mood of hopelessness, a wishing for oblivion. 
He lay still, feeling weak with nervous fatigue, insist¬ 
ing to himself that nothing should turn him aside from 
the protection of his beloved by a union with himself. 

“Except death,” he muttered to the sky up through 
the leaves, “and love is stronger than death.” 

When Mr. Norman came briskly to him, the desire 
to rush back immediately to Findlestone was gone. 
The kindly eyes of the artist soothed the fever of 
thought-laceration within him. For nearly twenty 
minutes he talked to Mr. Norman, telling him of the 
meeting in Devon, of Major Fairfax, of what Eveline 
had said to him. But of other men he said nothing. 
When he had finished, Mr. Norman leaned forward 
and spoke in a confidential voice. 

“Well, old fellow, so you’re in love with my little 
model, are you? I don’t wonder, and I don’t doubt— 
you, I mean. Otherwise, to be quite frank, I do not 
feel like congratulating you.” 

“But, on my honour, I love her with all my heart 
and soul. And she loves me, too.” 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 


413 

“With her heart, that organ for pumping blood and 
nourishing the nerves that control the emotions, yes. 
But not her soul, Willie. She has none.” 

“But she has,” cried William: “she is a poet. Some 
of the things she has said to me! And her profound 
feelings, her sensitiveness to beauty. I can talk to 
you, because you will not think I’m insane or merely 
a libertine. You have seen her eyes—can’t you see 
her soul in them?” 

“Now, listen to me, Willie. That soul-in-eye busi¬ 
ness is all rot. I have known Eve since she ran about 
in the fields in rags. I have seen her weeping over a 
swelled frog that some boy had stoned in the stream. 
Later, I have watched her taking her father’s dinner 
to the mowing meadow, and I have seen the men stare 
at her, even when she was twelve years old. When 
she was fourteen, she got a job as under-kitchenmaid 
at d’Essantville Castle—for a short time only.” 

William groaned, thinking of Lord Spreycombe. 

Mr. Norman continued in a reflective voice—“She 
is a natural lady. She was a refined child. Mother a 
drinker, a husband-beating scold. Father a poacher. 
Where she gets it from I don’t know. It’s simply a 
genius for assimilation.” 

“There is sunlight in her,” exclaimed William. 

“Well, yes, sunlight is one of the life-forces, and 
there is more in her than there is in the ordinary 
mortal. I don’t mean that she is over-sexed. But 
when you spoke just now about her being a poet, I 
know that you are a poet. She is an absorbent mirror, 
in which you see your own abstractions; I do not mean 
she is deliberately insincere. Many people think she 
poses—my wife thinks so. But I don’t. I know she 
calls up the deepest part of a man's nature, absorbs 


4 H THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

it, and is himself for awhile. She is quite sincere—to 
herself. Of course you think you love her. I knew 
it when I saw you. But you won’t always love her, 
Willie.” 

“I will,” he protested. “I cannot help myself. No¬ 
where can I find anyone who makes me feel so secure 
and rested from thought and fatigue.” 

“That is not a cry for woman’s love, Willie. It is 
the child in you crying for mother-love. Poor old 
chap, you never had a mother, did you?” 

“But, Mr. Norman, I am so sure of her. She is 
really sincere.” 

“Of course, you think she is. Any young man 
would, and the more sincere he was himself the more 
he would believe in her love. Old fellow, you must 
accept what I -say. It’s hard, I know. I believe you 
begin to realize the truth of my words even now. Per¬ 
haps they come at a time when your yourself are 
doubtful? You look a bit haggard, Willie, and it isn’t 
because of the heat. Tear yourself away; force your¬ 
self to accept the inevitable. And yet, I know even as 
I speak that you cannot. You are like a man bound 
and helpless. Now, tell me—of course you are lovers?” 

“Not since Major Fairfax became my friend.” 

William found it impossible to tell him about the 
night before last, as the feeling of holiness forbade. 

“Honestly?” 

“Yes, Mr. Norman.” 

“I find it hard to believe, Willie. And yet, no, damn 
it, I do believe you. But tell me—was it her doing?— 
but it must have been!” 

“Well, you see,” stammered William, ashamed, 
“Lionel said to her—I—I mean to me—and, I kept 
the promise—until the other night-” 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 415 

Mr. Norman said, “Well, don’t be ashamed. This 
happens to most young men. Willie, old boy, don’t 
go back! Chuck her! ” 

“No,” groaned the youth in the hammock, cover¬ 
ing his face with his hands. “No. There is no hope 
for me except in her guardian love. Everything else 
is gone in my life. What is this countryside to me 
now? Mr. Norman, this is the exception. With my 
love she will be different. I swear to you that I am 
saying a truth. Fundamentally, there is good in her 
nature, I know.” 

“Willie, why did you say with your help she would 
be different? My dear boy, it is worse than I thought. 
Have you found her already with another lover? For¬ 
give my crudity, but we understand each other.” 

“Men love her, curse them, but—oh, I can’t even 
think of it.” 

“Willie, you must not shirk the truth. Don’t delude 
yourself. There will come a time—if it hasn’t come 
already—when you will have to realize that she is 
behaving to another man, to other men, as she has 
behaved to you.” 

“I can’t believe it.” 

“You’ll have to.” 

“Never, never, never! She could not be so base. 
I know , Mr. Norman, I know” 

“Poor old Willie!” said Mr. Norman. “I can’t help 
you. Pain will have to teach you, I’m afraid. How 
long are you staying here?” 

“I shall go back to-night. There is a slow train at 
eight o’clock that gets into Findlestone at six in the 
morning. Every minute I spend away from her is. a 
drawn-out agony. I am going to write to Major Fair¬ 
fax immediately. I know it will hurt him, but I cannot 


416 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

help it. Eve suffers as well—it is best to write. I 
must go home now. Forgive my rudeness. I can't 
stop here any longer. What is honour to me? I've 
never had any honour, as my school reports used to 
insist. I am going back to the one person who loves 
me, and whom I love more than my life, for she is 
more than my life." 

Mr. Norman said reflectively, “The war has upset 
your normal development. It has upset hundreds of 
thousands, too—you and Eve among them. Some 
have got it worse than others. It's the beginning of 
spiritual awakening. A most difficult period for young 
people—that poor Warbeck boy, for instance, and 
Peter White—and you, Willie. And you are most 
honourable! You would never let down a friend. The 
French have an awfully good saying for troubles that 
seem about to crush one." 

“What is it?" asked William, hardly knowing what 
he said. 

“Qa passe ” 

At half-past six he got back to his father’s house, 
having walked for several miles in order to exhaust 
himself. 

“Have you had tea?" asked Mr. Maddison in the 
library. “Biddy made some tea-cakes for you. They’re 
kept hot, if you want any." 

“No, thank you, Father. I’m not hungry." 

“You’ve had tea, then?" 

“No, Father." 

“How’s that?" 

“I’m not hungry, thank you, Father." 

“Is there anything the matter? If I can be of any 
help, I will." 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 


417 

The son fidgeted on his chair, and mumbled that 
nothing in particular was the matter. 

“Is it about the girl?” 

He looked out of the window, unable to meet his 
father’s grave and sympathetic gaze. 

“If it’s that worrying you, what can I do? Nothing. 
Absolutely nothing.” 

“Father, I find it very hard to tell you.” 

“I’m sorry. Don’t tell me if you would rather not.” 

“It isn’t that, Father. I’m ashamed to tell you.” 
Mr. Maddison waited. 

“She’s married, Father.” 

“Then she is the wife of your friend?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, if I were you, old chap, I shouldn’t go back. 
It may be hard at first, but it will be best for everyone 
eventually.” 

William did not move. 

“Otherwise you will find yourself involved in some¬ 
thing that will make you not yourself.” 

The son made no answer, and the father began to 
walk about the room, as he had years ago when the 
son was a child, detected in some little crime, and 
about to be sent upstairs for a thrashing, for the ulti¬ 
mate good of his character. 

“Willie,” said Mr. Maddison, sitting down again, 
“has it gone very far?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“And does Major Fairfax know?” 

“No, Father.” 

“He was your host, my boy.” 

“Yes, sir, he was!” said William harshly, rising, “and 
I the honoured guest in his house. Now you know 
what a blackguard you have for a son.” 


418 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“There is no need to raise your voice like that.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir. I have no excuse at all 
for such a breach of good manners. I forgot I was a 
guest in your house.” 

“I do not forget that I am your father. And you 
needn’t consider yourself a guest—you’re the son of 
the house. You’re a bit tired after your journey. Why 
not let me ring for some tea?” 

“No, thank you, Father. But forgive me mentioning 
it, but is there any money due to me?” 

“Any money due to you? From the Army, do you 
mean? I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“No, I meant from my mother.” 

“I don’t understand, Willie.” 

“But didn’t she leave some when she—when I was 
bom?” 

“Your mother left a little money, yes, Willie. But 

she left it to me. She-” Mr. Maddison cleared his 

throat—“She did not know you.” 

“Oh, I beg your pardon—I rather thought, for what 
I remember Biddy to have said to me some years ago, 
that it was left to me. But I see that it was not so.” 

“Biddy has curious ideas at times,” said Mr. Maddi¬ 
son, “but if I t can help you at all, please let me know. 
Can I be of any use to you now?” 

“No, thank you, Father. It is very kind of you to 
offer. I must go very shortly.” 

“But you’ve only just come.” 

“I must go back to-night, thank you, Father.” 

“Is it as bad as all that?” asked Mr. Maddison, en¬ 
deavouring to make his son talk, and so relieve his 
anguished mind. 

“Bad?” cried William, “so you, too, are like every- 



THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 419 

one else. But she is not bad! It is I who am bad. I 
must go now.” 

“But won't you rest here to-night? Biddy has made 
up your bed.” ^ 

“I should only be climbing out of the window again 
in the night. I did that once before, if you remember. 
If only I had fallen and broken my neck!” 

“I don't know why you are talking like this.” 

“I’ve told you why, father. I am a blackguard. Mrs. 
Norman practically said so. You, I expect, think it 
as well. Is it a crime to fall in love? At least I have 
not fallen in love. Rather do I love a woman, more 
than my life, and for her I'd lose everything. She 
was born in a cottage. Mrs. Norman calls her That 
woman.' If the Galilean were alive to-day, and was 
born in Rookhurst in a manger, He’d be to her That 
man/ And she, mark you, is one of the chief church 
people in the district, and goes regularly to church, 
because she hasn't the slightest intuition about the 
nature of the visionary, of the pure spirit of the human 
race showing itself among men like a daffodil among 
grass.” 

“Don't distress yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. 
Maddison, seeing his son's face, and astonished that he 
had spoken in a way which he, after much medita¬ 
tion, understood so well. 

“How can I help it? She is like someone netted in 
a web of her own immutable convictions. I am not 
intolerant of her—she is a dear woman in herself—but 
when I think of her, and the human race generally, 
absolutely helpless because people follow false ideals. 
The—I—we ” 

“My dear boy, you are overwrought. Why not go 
to bed and rest?” 



420 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


“There is no rest for those who fall on the thorns 
of life. If there be a just God, why didn’t He let me 
be wounded and then burned alive in the scrub, instead 
of Jack? He was useful. I’m a waster. I must be, 
because I’ve never done anything worth while in my 
life, except to be a target for our own naval shells on 
Chunuk Bair, and later to help to destroy some poor 
miserable little German soldiers who were sick with 
yearning for peace and their wives and children. Yes, 
I lived in my friend’s house after I had made love to 
her in my own. That’s an awful thing to say, Father, 
but it’s absolutely true. I’m a degenerate—as you 
once called me as a boy. Why don’t you order me out 
of your house? I’m no more use to England—I made 
a mistake in not being killed.” 

“My dear boy, you must be torturing yourself to 
think like that. And remember, I did not demand 
your confidence. And I have not condemned you.” 

“But you think it all wrong?” 

“Frankly, I cannot think it is all right. For you, 
I mean. But don’t worry any more. You will feel 
better in the morning.” 

The tone of the father’s voice, the worn look on his 
face, made the son remorseful for his words. He real¬ 
ized that he was stronger than his father, and his heart 
melted with tenderness for him. 

“Sir,” he said, in a choked voice, while tears for the 
way he had hurt the old man ran down his cheeks, 
“Sir, forgive me speaking to you like that. I’m a cad 
and a—a beastly rotter. But father, everything seems 
to be against—against me. I walk all night sometimes, 
to—to tire myself so that I may sleep—but it is no use 
—and the—the nights are long—longer than the frosty 
nights on Gallipoli after the deluge, when so many 


THE VISIT TO ROOKHURST 421 

were frozen on the hill. Father, the silence of the night 
hurts more than frozen eyeballs and the—the ice be¬ 
tween the brain and the skull, and the—the concussion 
of big naval shells. So forgive me—I am—always— 
really—really despair, and yet, yet——” 

He turned away, and went out of the room, and out 
of the house, and down the drive to the lane. He 
tried to send a telegram to Eveline to tell her that 
he was coming back to her, but it was too late. Just 
before the train moved off the gardener came to the 
station and gave him a note from his father. Inside 
the carriage he read the brief contents. 

Ties that have to be broken should never be 
made. I don't say this on ethical or moral 
grounds, but because suffering is otherwise given 
and taken. But be true to yourself, my son. No 
one can do more . 


CHAPTER V 


BEFORE NOON 

All night long the train moved beside starlit fields 
and rumbled through dark tunnels, while on the seat 
he drowsed and thought and smoked. He saw the 
dawn through the open window, cold and remote be¬ 
yond the orient. In the meadows and over streams 
a white mist was rolled by the winds. At every station 
the engine stopped, while urns of milk and baskets of 
dairy produce were clanked and slidden into the vans. 
He saw the sun rise rubicund and dazed about the early 
autumnal vapours. When eventually the train passed 
down the platform of Findlestone he was chill and 
faint. 

It was six o’clock. The newspapers had not yet 
arrived from London. A few farm carts rattled down 
the streets, with drivers sitting on shafts and tail¬ 
boards. A golden September haze filled the road be¬ 
tween the limetrees as he walked up the avenue known 
as The Paragon. The street door of the house was 
not yet unlocked so he went down to his lodgings to 
wash. 

The young woman in black who usually gave him 
breakfast was raking ashes from the sitting-room grate 
when he entered. She said they had been worried 
about his absence; wisps of hair were over her face, 
and a sooty smudge on one cheek. He told her that he 
422 


BEFORE NOON 


4 2 3 

had been away on business, and went upstairs to his 
room. She had cooked two rashers of bacon and a 
duck’s egg for him when he came down, but he did 
not wait to eat it, and hurried to the flat. 

The door was still locked, so he went for a walk on 
the Leas wishing that Billjohn was with him. After 
an impatient walk to the Majestic Hotel he returned. 
Milk bottles were being laid on the steps of houses. 
The door was unlocked, and he climbed the stairs. 

A visitor had arrived before him, for he heard a 
cough in the drawing room. It was Peter White, 
dressed in flannel trousers and a sports coat of Donegal 
tweed. The boy turned to speak to him, but could say 
nothing. His submissive eyes were fixed in a dull 
stare as he sat on the couch. 

“Hullo, Sandhurst,” said William, “what’s the matter 
with you?” 

“Nothing, Captain Maddison.” 

He noticed that his hands were shaking. 

“You don’t look very well.” 

“I feel—I feel-” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Nothing, Captain Maddison.” 

“Have you seen Mrs. Fairfax?” 

“N-no,” he stuttered, “I think she’s still asleep.” 

“Have you got more leave, Peter?” 

“I’m not at Sandhurst any more. I’m stellanbosched. 
But I don’t care, Willie. I beg your pardon.” 

“I like you to call me Willie.” 

“Mary Ogilvie always spoke of you like that, so 
I’m rather in the habit.” 

“What’s that book you’ve got there?” asked William. 

“It’s for Mi—for Mrs. Fairfax. It’s called Far Away 
and Long Ago. It’s for her to keep.” 



424 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Why were you stellanbosched, Peter ?” 

“I—I couldn't stick the life. I was always ragged 
by the other chaps, who said I was an outsider, and 
because I got tight one night to forget ghastly reality 
they ragged my room and a cad named Formby tore 
up my photographs. I went for him with a poker and 
laid him out." 

Peter White looked miserable and forlorn. 

“You shouldn’t drink. I saw you once before, jolly 
ill. You’re too frail, you know. I get just the same 
if I drink very much.’’ 

“I’m not really frail, only I get upset, and drink’s 
the only way to forget things.’’ 

He wondered if he in the past had been like Peter 
White and said to himself that he was not very differ¬ 
ent now. In spite of the boy’s wretchedness, he felt 
impatient with him; and speculating upon the cause of 
this, he realized that it was because of Eveline, and his 
own lulled torment that drove out sympathy for others. 

“When did you come, Peter?’’ 

“Yesterday.’’ 

“Have you told your Mother? It will make her 
sad, Peter, and your Mother is too sweet a woman to 
be made sad.’’ 

Peter White gave him a timid look, and said, “How 
do you know about my Mother?’’ 

“I met her at the Grand Hotel on Peace Night.’’ 

“Oh, yes, she told me she had spoken to a friend— 
I mean, to someone,’’ he replied awkwardly. 

“I have a high opinion of your Mother, Peter. She 
is a true woman.’’ 

“Yes,’’ said Peter, avoiding the other’s eyes. “Oh, I 
must tell you, Willie. M—Mummie is—well, I was 
terrified for Mrs. Fairfax to see her, because I dreaded 


BEFORE NOON 425 

what she would think. Once I heard her talking about 
someone else, and calling her ‘common.’ It was like 
a stab to me. And when Mother came to see me once, 
at Sandhurst, I knew what the other fellows thought, 
and—and Formby said she was the fat woman out of 
a booth in a fair.” 

“Oh. And how long was the gentleman in the 
hospital?” 

“I fought him, but he beat me easily.” 

“Don’t worry, Peter. When our nation, with its 
false prides and its un-understandings, is forgotten: 
when our earth is ice, and the sun is vanished and 
black: long after when the dust of this planet has 
ceased to fall upon other worlds, the Love which is the 
spirit of the mother-heart will remain.” 

Tears came in Peter’s eyes, and he seized the hand 
of William, who was gazing rapt and unseeing at some¬ 
thing beyond the window. 

They were interrupted by Martha’s face solemnly 
ugly and expressionless looking round the door and 
her voice saying that Mrs. Fairfax wanted to see 
Captain Maddison. 

“Where is she, Martha?” 

“In her room, mister.” 

“But I can’t go in there. She expects me to wait in 
the dining room, perhaps?” He said this because 
Peter White was present. 

“It’s all right, mister. I’ve took her tea in.” 

He went into her room, closing the door. She 
stretched up lace-frilled arms to him, clasping him 
almost fiercely. He knelt on the Persian praying rug, 
elbows on her pillow, forming with his hands a rest for 
her head. Her eyes were dewy with love, but he did 
not kiss her. In silence he looked at her. 


426 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Billy, is Peter out there?” 

“Yes. He wants to see you,” he said. 

“Tell him I cannot see him again. Get rid of him. 
He plagues me.” 

“What shall I say to him.” 

“Anything. I won’t see him.” 

“Shall I give him that message?” 

“No. Just say that I meant absolutely what I said 
yesterday. Billy, let’s go and swim this morning.” 

He nodded, free of thought and pain, and rested 
his head on her shoulder. He held his cheek against 
hers, but spoke not the words of love that troubled 
his deep heart. He left her, and went back to Peter 
White, who was stuffing a handkerchief into his left 
sleeve. 

“Mrs. Fairfax asked me to tell you, Peter, that she 
meant absolutely what she said to you yesterday.” 

He saw him wince and shiver, and the dull stare 
came back to his eyes. 

“All right,” he said. 

Compelling his voice to be steady, thereby render¬ 
ing his tone unintentionally formal and harsh, William 
said, 

“You must remember that she is a married lady. 
You should not come near her again, now that she has 

expressly-” The speaker coughed several times, 

and resumed more rapidly, “—asked you not to. Is 
that clear?” 

“Yes,” replied the other, like an obedient child. “I 
realize that it is—it is—the end. But I don’t under¬ 
stand.” He hid his head in the couch. The elder 
man waited. 

Peter White got up. He took an envelope from his 


BEFORE NOON 


427 

pocket, with a book, and held it out to William, who 
with back towards him did not see it. 

“Willie!” 

“Is that for me?” 

“Yes. This, too, Willie! You do understand, don’t 
you?” 

“What, old man?” 

But Peter W T hite could only gulp. He held out the 
book. Overhead Jonquil could be heard jumping on 
her spring mattress, a thing she was most fond of 
doing, especially in the early morning when the sun 
looked in upon her through the window. 

“Willie.” 

“Yes?” 

“I didn’t mean anyone to see that letter. I don’t 
know why I wrote it. Swear you won’t read it till 
after noon?” 

“I promise,” said William. “Will you be gone from 
Findlestone by then?” 

Peter White nodded. 

“Yes, by then. Tell her I shall never forget her 
kindness. Won’t you?” 

“I will.” 

“Willie, let me go for a walk with you. I’m so 
ghastly afraid of being alone. You’re so strong. People 
say I’m weak, but they don’t understand. Shake hands, 
will you?” 

Which was done, and Peter White went out of the 
room. The teeth of his upper jaw, slightly prominent, 
were pressed on his lip. In the hall he stopped, irreso¬ 
lute, his eyes swelled with tears. William thought of 
the hare he had found in a wire on Brakspear Down, 
dying for air, with twisted heart. 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


428 

“Won’t she say good-bye ?” Peter’s voice trembled. 

“Ill see,” said William, going into the bedroom. 

“Is it much I’ve asked you to do?” said Eveline, 
loudly so that Peter White should hear. “Tell him I 
never want to see him again. Wait. Please return this 
cigarette case to him. Tell him he forced it upon me, 
and that I never wanted it. Thank you, Billy.” And, 
whispering to him—“Cruel to be kind.” 

“I’ll come down with you, Peter,” he murmured. At 
the street door Peter White begged him to meet him 
in the town at Corvano’s at eleven o’clock. 

“I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve got an appointment. 
Now, Peter, you will feel better when you’re away, 
honestly, you will, old chap. Now, you jump on that 
motor-cycle of yours and go back to your mother. 
Won’t you?” 

“Won’t you come with me into the town? I’m so 
lonely,” supplicated the boy. 

“I can’t, really. Now, you do what I say, won’t 
you?” 

“Yes, Willie. Tell Mignon—tell her—tell her— 
Willie, I don’t—say to her that beauty is faithfulness, 
and she must never forget my words.” 

“I will.” 

“And tell her not to worry.” 

“Very well.” 

“And Willie.” 

“Yes, Peter.” 

“You’re the greatest gentleman I know.” 

He did not deliver the message at breakfast, but said, 
“Poor little chap! But his mother will be pleased to 
see him.” 

“I only hope ^e goes!” 


BEFORE NOON 


429 

“Your beauty is answerable for a lot of incoher¬ 
ence, Eve.” 

“I didn’t make myself. I say, Bill, there’s a topping 
show at the Leas Pavilion. A wonderful tenor. He 
sang the Prize Song from the Meistersingers. My 
dear, I did long for you to be there—I thought of you 
all the time. I went with de la Hay and Archie Dodder 
last night. Did you think of me at all?” 

“Yes, Eve.” 

“You don’t seem very pleased to see me.” 

He smiled sadly at her. 

They saw Peter White once more, later in the morn¬ 
ing as they were going to bathe, and Eveline ignored 
him. Mr. de la Hay, the actor, went in the sea about 
four waves after them. He attached himself with easy 
familiarity to Eveline, who, William observed with 
pain, seemed glad to see him. He felt that he was not 
wanted, and swam to a breakwater, but she did not 
seem to notice. She swam to another groin with Mr. 
de la Hay, and perched beside him in a harlequin 
bathing dress. She seemed most happy. He went out 
before they did, dressed quickly, and climbed a path 
to the bandstand. Here he remembered the letter 
that Peter White had given him. The clock on the 
bandstand pointed to five minutes to twelve, and he 
waited till the hour with a sensation of dread and 
fascination to read what was doubtless a love-letter 
written to the woman who loved himself. 

I was a fool to show my feelings like that, he thought. 
And I suppose Eve will consider it puerile jealousy. 
And yet I don’t think it is jealousy. My darling, I 
did so look forward to being alone with you, he sighed 
to himself, as he broke the envelope, and glanced at 


430 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


the letter, which was written in ink on many sheets 
of paper, and in parts scarcely to be read. The Hun¬ 
garian band, looking uncomfortable in their huzzar 
dolmans, and led by the longhaired violinist in Hessian 
boots, played the opening bars of Belle Nuit from 
Offenbach’s Contes d’Hofjmann. It was one of the 
favourite airs of the Findlestone holiday crowd. He 
began to read. 


CHAPTER VI 


A DOCUMENT IN HYSTERIA 

19 September, 1919. 

1 o'clock in the morning . 

Victoria Hotel . 

So this, then, is the end . . . 

The end of everything. 

After two hours of silent waiting, with nerves strung 
up to the highest pitch, my ghastly, ghastly fears have 
been confirmed. Not confirmed by any actual and con¬ 
clusive action, but by the feeling in my heart. 

It is nearly one o'clock, I know, but I am absolutely 
indifferent to time or place. At the present moment I 
am indifferent to life itself: I am callous of the future, 
and as for the immediate present ... I have not quite 
realized it yet. I must write—the only outlet for my 
terrible anguish. 

How the stones on the beach outside hiss as each 
summer wave recedes after its crash. A bluebottle is 
buzzing about the room. My only dread is that it will 
settle on my head, and then I am sure I shall scream. 
My nerves have been on edge for the past two hours. 

When I approached your house about a quarter past 
ten to-night, I noticed that your windows were not 
lighted up. I concluded that you were either in bed, 
which at that hour was unlikely, or that you were still 
out, which was most probable. As I paused wondering 
431 


432 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

whether I should whistle or go straight in, 1 heard 
your laughing voice in the distance. Your laugh has 
always appeared to me to be joyous—although as I 
think of it now in retrospect it grates on my ear. But 
that is only to be expected, perhaps, after the emotion 
my brain has had racing and roaring through it during 
the last two hours. . . . 

/ saw your white dress in the half-light of the eve¬ 
ning, and with your two men friends. I immediately 
turned round and walked rapidly away. I bent my 
back as I came under the lamplight, so that you might 
not recognize me. I tried to hobble along as an old, 
old tramp might. But apparently my subterfuge was 
of no avail, for I heard you whistle to me—the same 
whistle that I taught you during the first rapture of 
our friendship: the whistle that I and my dear dead 
brother used when, so long ago now that it is a blurred 
and indistinct memory, we used to wander in the woods 
and fields in Warwickshire. 

I heard the whistle. I knew that neither of the men 
with you would know me, or imagine that anyone was 
waiting for you. 

I crossed the road further down, and hid myself be¬ 
hind one of the limetrees in the Avenue. I heard your 
voice distinctly: in the calm serenity of the evening it' 
sounded so very clear: I heard you saying good-night 
to them, and thanking Mr. Dodder for giving you a 
pleasant evening. Then you ran up the steps, and the 
two figures vanished; the one retraced his steps, the 
other went round the corner towards your grandfather’s 
house. I walked forward. I saw the light appear in 
your drawing room under the roof. I watched you as 
you drew the yellow curtains across the window, and 
thought at the time that, if you had wanted me, you 


A DOCUMENT IN HYSTERIA 433 

would, have looked out to me. I am sure you knew that 
I was down there, watching you, waiting to come up to 
you. All the evening I had been glancing at my watch, 
counting the minutes till a quarter to ten, when I would 
be seeing you. How differently things turned out after 
all. 

The sea is still murmuring: it seems to be sobbing. 
Perhaps it is my imagination , however, or that my 
grief and anguish is coming on again. Anyhow, it 
seems to me that it sobs as it leaves the land behind it. 
The fly has stopped: he is probably tired, and sleep¬ 
ing as he clings to the wall somewhere. . . 

I stood still on the pavement below. A Ford taxicab 
rushed past with blazing headlights, and its advent 
filled the air with a greasy odour of burnt oil and petrol, 
and little pieces of dust and straw whirled behind it, 
filling my nostrils and irritating my eyes. 

Then, just as I was about to cross the road, I saw 
you standing at the top of the steps, and I knew you 
were looking for me. My heart bounded, and just as 
I started to come to you I saw a dark figure turn the 
corner rapidly, and leap up to meet you. For a mo¬ 
ment I thought that he had been round to your grand¬ 
father's, and then I knew. Of course, it was the old 
trick: I had done it myself dozens of times. Your 
parting with the two men was just subterfuge: the 
elder of the two did not interest you, and, therefore, 
you got rid of him in that manner. All arranged be¬ 
forehand as you and the other man sat alone at dinner, 
and you probably laughed in his face as you explained 
the ruse, and the blood flowed slightly faster in his 
veins at the thought that he, as a man, would naturally 
thinks that you were attracted by him. 

For about half an hour I stood near the house, 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


434 

watching the window. I am afraid I was spying again, 
as you call it, hut I do not wish to make any excuse. 
But why I felt sick at heart, why my brain was numb, 
and I could not keep still, I ccmnot tell. Perhaps for 
the same reason that I was damp with perspiration, 
and my eyes misted over so that I had to rub them 
clear again . . . . 

At the end of a quarter of an hour I suddenly thought 
I would see the whole thing through. I crossed the 
road silently, I felt like a tiger stalking in the jungle. 
Only, instead of the fierce joy of the chase, I experi¬ 
enced that sinking, sickening sensation that one has 
when very bad news is imminent. Yes, I was appre¬ 
hensive. 

I opened the hall door very silently, and crept into 
the hall. I paused, and listened, straining my head 
into the void above to try and hear your voice. I 
only heard the sound of plates being washed up by 
the people in the flat below you, and the dull murmur 
of their voices. I opened the door on the right, and 
entered the empty room, which the decorators are still 
working on. The light from the street lamps fell on 
the floor, and I could see the trees through the dirty 
window, and a dark patch on the glass of the middle 
window, where the TO LET sign was pasted on. On 
the floor were brooms, planks, pails of half dried white¬ 
wash, and paintpots, and the sour smell of fresh paint 
and putty. I glanced round and picked my way care¬ 
fully over the floor to avoid kicking a pail over and 
betraying my whereabouts. I finally sat down on the 
floor opposite the door, in such a position that, with 
the door half closed, I could see everything that oc¬ 
curred outside. Then I thought that you would pos¬ 
sibly turn the light on when you came downstairs with 


A DOCUMENT IN HYSTERIA 435 

him, and would see me. So I chose a position behind 
the door and started to wait. 

Eleven o’clock struck. I could just hear what the 
two people in the flat above me were saying. The 
woman was telling the man about a young girl, a serv- 
ant girl, I gathered, who had apparently thrown all 
maidenly reserve to the winds. As usual, they con¬ 
demned her harshly. The poor girl’s ears must have 
burned that night, because they tore every shred of 
character she had possessed completely in shreds. They 
dealt with her in the usual way the majority of women 
do when judging, or rather condemning, one of their 
own sex. 

By this time I found that my knees were trembling 
ever so slightly. My throat was husky, but I dared 
not clear it, lest the noise brought people down to see 
who was there. 

My cheeks, too, were hot; it may have been all 
caused through imagination, of course, but then it is 
very difficult to discriminate between reality and imagi¬ 
nation. At any rate, I was very, very nervous, and 
very , very unhappy. But that is entirely my look-out, 
of course. ... I heard the clock strike the half hour. 
Soon the whole house was as silent as the grave. I 
could hear the metallic tick of the watch on my wrist. 
The street lamps still threw their weird and grotesque 
shadow on the floor. Upstairs, in your drawing room, 
you were closeted with your friend, talking: I could 
imagine you having said to the maid, “Oh, Marty, you 
poor dear, go to bed!” in your gentle voice; perhaps 
you were being kissed by him; but, still, I must not 
imagine things. My thoughts are ghastly and tragic 
enough without imagination to intensify or distort 
their effect. 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


436 

One sound came down from above, the sound of cups 
on a tray being rattled. I wondered how this occurred: 
did you do it as you rose to get something, or was it 
caused by his legs as he turned towards you to take 
you in his arms f 

Oh, the torture of that thought! The ghastly, 
ghastly suspicion that it brings with it in its baleful 
train; the thought that your deepest words are light 
as the ashes of a gorse fire settling to the earth, that 
you give yourself as lightly as bracken to the swaling 
flames. 

Twelve o’clock boomed from the church over the 
road. Midnight! But I determined to see the whole 
thing through. About a minute later I caught the. 
sound of a door being opened slowly, and I heard your 
voice. I could not move. I stood in the doorway. I 
had it all mapped out, what I should do. I would 
almost close the door and peer through the space left. 
If you kissed each other . . . and I even thought he 
might kiss you hurriedly as a brother might . . . oh, 
I did not want to believe the worst . . . because I 
loved you with all that was best in my soul, as well as 
with the worst in my heart, maybe. 

I saw you put the light on, and found I had slipped 
on to my knees, and was shaking like a leaf. But l 
know you must have kissed him. I will not tell you 
my feelings, although you will never read this letter. 
My feelings do not concern you at all . . . now .... 
and I prefer to leave that aching, reeling feeling of 
sorrow undescribed, even to myself. . . . 

You were not worthy of the love I had to offer you 
—that phrase burnt into my brain as I staggered out 
towards the sea—you were not worthy. You were faith - 


A DOCUMENT IN HYSTERIA 437 

less and insincere . . . you gave me love, and immedi¬ 
ately you were tired. Ij I believed in God, I should 
pray for you till I died. Mignon, I cannot understand 
you. You did love me. In the beginning I loved you 
because you loved me, and told me so when you sud¬ 
denly clasped me to your heart and kissed my lips that 
sweet morning in May down by the Rhythe Canal. 
You loved me then, although you hid yourself in Devon 
soon after, but I thought that was because of Phillip 
Maddison, and because you wanted to think about our 
love in perfect quiet. It nearly broke my heart with 
joy that a beautiful, poetical girl like yourself could 
love me. It seemed incredible that you were married. 
You seemed so intensely mine from the moment 
you came on the earth. I thought you were the one 
dear, sweet girl I was destined to meet when I grew up 
and love and cherish in my heart always . . . even 
after death, when we should wander together into 
Eternity. I have, of course, told you this before, 
and how you must have laughed inside you. I know 
you called me an egoist: I who was always marvelling 
at the purity of thought and feelings you called up 
in me and so entranced with it all that I wanted you 
always to hear about it: how the wind whispered it, 
and the birds sang it. Ah! How pitilessly I see the 
shattered ideal, and the feet of clay, as your statue ties 
in the pitiless white light of fact and reason. 

I wandered down to the beach. I wanted the sea to 
hear my tale: the sea always soothes me so. Perhaps 
one of these days it will soothe me eternally as my head 
disappears in its swirling embrace. 

The cold moon shone down on the waters, spread¬ 
ing a broad path of silvery spangles as the waves 


438 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

tripped and rippled. Except for the sob of the waves, 
all was silent. The summer is finished, for this year 
at least. Perhaps I shall never see another. I have 
had my springtide of life, and now it is ended. 

Twenty-four hours before — God, only twenty-four 
hours—you and I sat in our evening clothes on the 
cliffs, marvelling at the calmness of the great still sea, 
and I had so loved you that for the moment I imagined 
you as not of this earth: as some ethereal, saintly vision 
sitting beside me. You may remember I told you so. 

Twenty-four hours ago! 

Now I was sitting on the beach alone, listening to 
the wavelets as they sobbed up the land, and dull 
despair in my heart. I am afraid I still love you, but 
I do not trust you, and believe, in fact I know, that 
you are insincere, dishonourable and treacherous. And 
when I know all this of you, and yet still love you with 
my soul, I am afraid it is rather a bad outlook for me. 

The night wind played around my temples, soft was 
the sob of the sea. I held my head in my hands, and 
then pressed it into the dark, wet pebbles for relief. 
Far away the lighthouse flashed—down the white path 
of the moon's radiance on the water a dark fishing boat 
was going home . . . the beauty of the scene for a 
moment enraptured my soul, and then I remembered 
that it was but twenty-four hours since I had known 
the most exquisite soul poetry with you, as we sat, 
clasping each other on the cliffs, I in my black coat and 
you in your Chinese dragon cloak ... in the moon¬ 
light the dark shadowy pools of your eyes were 
radiantly beautiful . . . your face was sweet, and as 
the powdered silver of the moonlight drenched you, you 
looked like an angel . . . and that was twenty-four 
hours ago . . . only twenty-four hours ago . . . 


439 


A DOCUMENT IN HYSTERIA 

Mignon! 1 can see no more: great big tears keep 
welling up in my eyes. I am utterly, utterly broken. 

Mignon, my love, light oj the sky. Christ pity me! 
Mignon—” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE DEPARTURE OF PETER WHITE 

It sprawled across the page in wild writing. It tailed 
off in visible despair. 

The band began to play the National Anthem just as 
he laid it down. He stood to attention. As soon as it 
was over he walked to the Victoria Hotel, which was 
a boarding-house near the docks, and enquired for Mr. 
White. The proprietress, a timid little faded gentle¬ 
woman, told him that Mr. White had just gone out on 
his motor-cycle. He had told her that he was depart¬ 
ing that day, but his room was still in occupation, and 
he had not yet packed his bag. She asked if he were a 
brother of Mr. White’s, because he resembled him, 
especially about the eyes and the mouth. He replied 
that he was no relative but that he was an intimate 
friend, upon which the proprietress confided her alarm 
about him. He had been out till very late the night 
before, or she would have said that morning, his return 
waking up many guests, as he ran upstairs in the dark 
and bumped his head into the door of a resident guest. 
Then he had been heard walking about in his room for 
more than two hours, lying on his bed, leaning out of 
the window, going into the bathroom and filling the 
basin with water, and finally leaving the house. He ate 
no breakfast, and had said that he would not be in to 
lunch. He had stayed there before, and his behaviour 

440 


THE DEPARTURE OF PETER WHITE 441 

had always been erratic, and he was such a charming 
boy at times. She feared to say that complaints had 
been made by the other guests, and she was afraid she 
would have to ask him not to return there. He had 
paid his bill by cheque half-an-hour since, and had 
gone off on his motor-cycle. He told her that his eccen¬ 
tric behaviour was due to disprized love, and the little 
lady’s face showed tender compassion immediately, 
and she made a sympathetic movement of her lips. 

When he left her he went up some stone steps to the 
Leas, and through a passage beside a church to the 
High Street. The clock over the Town Hall, facing 
the meeting of three streets, with the Queen’s Hotel at 
the conjunction, pointed at three minutes to one 
o’clock. It was, by Greenwich time, three minutes be¬ 
fore noon. He stood still, wondering where he might 
be. A motor tradevan drew up outside the principal 
fishshop, where a man was swabbing a marble slab with 
a cloth. Red lobsters and crabs, oysters and salmon, 
prawns and soles, lay amid blocks of ice and green pars¬ 
ley, with mullet and cod. His line of sight was upon 
the fishmonger so energetically swabbing the marble 
slab, but he was not seeing him, nor did he hear the 
metallic purr of the motorvan. I must find that poor 
suffering kid, he thought, now is a real chance to help 
someone. The fishmonger ceased to swab the marble, 
and the regular action being broken, William observed 
suddenly the peculiar and fixed expression of his face 
as he gazed, with the swab held motionless in his up¬ 
lifted hand, at something in the street behind him. At 
the same moment a woman’s voice began to scream, the 
rough shrillness continuing until broken by a sharp re¬ 
port and the noise of plunging hoofs. Many people 
seemed to be putting hands to faces, and looking down 


442 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the street, he saw Peter White behind the motorvan, 
hatless, and sinking to the road. A revolver loosened 
from his right hand as he sank down, and clattered into 
the gutter. 

William went to him at once and knelt by him, 
knowing by the attitude that he might not be dead. 
Gleams of gold showed in the soft brown hair of the 
head lolling on his sleeve, and seeing the gentle eyes, no 
longer lit with life, and the teeth between the drooped 
lips, he again thought of the hare throttled in a snare. 
In the sunshine he kneeled, his arm under the thin 
neck, while the dying eyes stared into his own, as 
though dimly wondering who he was, and why the sun 
was going out. 


CHAPTER VIII 


AFTER NOON 

A voice softly singing to the accompaniment of a piano 
sounded in the drawing room of the flat as he walked 
through the hall door. The wide-brimmed felt hat of 
Mr. de la Hay was hanging on a peg, his clouded cane 
and goatskin gloves laid below it on the floor. He was 
seated at the piano and smiled as William entered, con¬ 
tinuing his melody: 

She is waiting where the willow tree sighs 
My sweet Jeannette. 

The morn wind passes, the swallow dies, 

By my Jeannette. 

Eyes are cloud-soft, gray as the skies, 

Lips are tender, good, and wise 
Of my Jeanette. 

Oh, this London Town's a-swoon 
Every hot, vibrating noon. 

I am coming very soon 
To the flowery lanes of June, 

And you, Jeanette. 


He ceased. 

“No, dear lady, I’m not sure whether I ought to fin¬ 
ish falsetto con pianissimo. And to be quite honest, 
I’m not sure whether the words will fetch ’em. They’re 


443 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


444 

a bit too good, although I suppose I oughtn't to say 
that as I wrote them myself. However, if I tried to 
mute the poetical stop a bit, I daresay I shall make 
rather a hash of it, and merely fall between two stools. 
It wants more onions in it. But I like it. How do, 
Maddison, old boy." 

“Well, William, now that you are here at last, we 
can have lunch. Do you want to wash?" she asked the 
man at the piano, who flashed her a smile of white 
teeth and said that he had already done so. 

“Then come on. I suppose you can eat grouse?" 

“My mouth waters, dear lady." 

He leapt forward, holding the door open for her, and 
they went into the other room, but William remained 
standing by the window. Martha went in with the 
dishes, came out again: a masked ex-officer with a bar¬ 
rel organ stopped in the street below and commenced 
to play. A breeze came from the sea and filled the 
lemon curtains, and he saw it ruffle the feathers of a 
sparrow perched on the gutter above her bedroom 
window. Buoyantly on the air came a white butterfly, 
drifting up and down, which the bird pursued and 
clumsily hawked in mid air. A starling flew to the 
chimneystack opposite, and Sang with wings shaking 
dull colour hues like its song. He dimly realized that 
he was thirsty but wanted no drink, and then Eveline 
with napkin in hand was looking round the door and 
asking if he had any reason for the display of bad 
manners other than a childish and backboneless 
jealousy. 

“You make me ashamed of you," she said, “why 
don't you behave as an ordinary decent man? Cannot 
I meet an acquaintance and invite him to lunch with¬ 
out your insulting him in your hostess's house? Billy, 


AFTER NOON 


445 

dear, why do you make things so hard for me? What 
have I done? Oh, you are a cruel man.” 

His voice made a dry whisper; he cleared his throat 
and she waited. 

“Are you ill, Billy? Why do you stare at me like a 
man that has been clubbed. Tell me, old chap, are you 
ill?” 

“I am not ill.” 

“Then come and have some lunch. They are such 
fine birds and I bought them specially for you. I told 
him that Naps sent them, but Naps wouldn’t give any¬ 
thing away, not he!” 

“I am not hungry.” 

“Thank you!” 

“No lunch, thank you,” he wheezed. 

“Billy, are you drunk?” 

He shook his head. “I—I—tell him to go soon.” 

“Do you order me to get rid of him?” she asked 
quietly, with tightening mouth. 

“No, no. Oh, no.” 

“You make me exasperated,” she said, with scorn in 
her voice. “Thank heaven, all men are not like you. 
Well, if you won’t come you won’t, and certainly I’m 
not going down on my knees to you.” 

“No, not to me.” 

She went back to the dining room. For some min¬ 
utes the street musician went on grinding, but weary¬ 
ing of playing for nothing, he dragged his wretched 
organ down the road. He watched him till he disap¬ 
peared round the comer into the High Street. The 
starling stopped its song to preen the feathers of its 
tail, and having done so, shook itself and flew away. 

When after lunch they came back into the room 
for coffee, he was still by the window. Mr. de la Hay 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 


446 

continued to talk livelily in his musical voice. He 
seemed perfectly at home, lying back on the couch 
with one leg cocked over his knee, with his effortless 
and bright man-of-the-world conversation suspended 
while he picked his teeth. William gulped down a cup 
of coffee; the spoon rattled in the saucer. Noting this, 
and his tearstained cheeks, Mr. de la Hay smoothed his 
nose between finger and thumb, sniffed thrice, and 
looked blandly and with raised eyebrows from the ceil¬ 
ing to Eveline. 

“ . . . yes, you really must manage to come up to 
Town for our first night/’ his voice was heard some 
time later. “It will be awful fun. Do you know Con- 
suelo Fitzroy? She’s an aw-fully nice girl. Getting a 
hundred a week. I must introduce you, dear lady. 
Supper on the stage afterwards, don’t you know, and a 
dance. Aw-fully good fun. You really must manage 
to be up for it.” 

“I shall,” declared Eveline. 

The conversation flowed on unheard by the man at 
the window, except for sentences and laughs that came 
to him with startling distinctness, only to fade away 
once more and become blurred with things seen out of 
the window until he realized that they were going; and 
when alone he flung himself into a chair and covered 
his face with his hands. Eveline found him like this, 
and stood before him frowning and with pursed lips, 
her feet close together, and tips of spread fingers 
pressed against her tweed jacket. 

He looked up and saw that she was frowning, but 
her eyes were merry. “What a conceited bore’that 
man is! How I hate being called ‘dear lady.’ I in¬ 
vited him in to have a peg and a cigarette last night, 
after a concert at the Leas Pavilion wfith Archie Dod- 


AFTER NOON 


447 

der, and he stayed till nearly midnight talking about 
himself and his rotten old show. I was quite amused, 
but one knows all about him after half an hour.” 

“You liar!he said in a voice so harsh and terrible 
that she started. “You let him make love to you—you 
with a face that is beautiful and foul. For you keep 
faith with no man; your word is worthless; your mind 
is evil/’ 

“I will kill you if you say any more,” she said, with 
white lips. 

“The retort of a wanton,” he replied curtly. 

She stood before him in cold bewilderment, a pulse 
beating in her throat, with opened mouth. She was 
nervously clenching her hands, opening them again and 
spreading her fingers. Slowly the blood came back into 
her cheeks. 

“How dare you talk to me like that?” she whim¬ 
pered in pain, going near to him with arm upraised to 
strike him, but no blow was given. “I think I shall kill 
you for calling me wanton. You are the same as all 
other men. You are! You are!—Oh, God, you are no 
different, after all! You called me wanton! You, the 
man I gave love to, for whom I broke the vows I had 
faithfully kept—yes, yes, yes, I tell you!—because I 
believed you were a messenger of the divine, whom I 
might serve and comfort!” 

“You are a clever actress.” 

“0 God in Heaven,” she moaned, “am I really evil? 
0 Thou who coloured my eyes and my hair and my lips 
for Thine own purpose, dost Thou say that I am foul? 
Thou Who made the skylark and the hawk, and put 
passion in the heart of woman, am I a foul thing?” 

He was shocked at her frenzy of grief. She rocked to 
and fro on the chair in which she had flung herself. He 


448 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

could look at her no longer, but sat with his hands over 
his face. Suddenly she ceased, and became rigid. Her 
face had a nobility that awed him. 

"Eveline.” 

"Well?” she replied proudly. 

"I’m sorry I called you those things.” 

“How dare you say you are sorry!” 

“Eve, I have something to tell you.” 

“Once, once you said I was like a lark that sang for 
joy. Well, your talons have struck me down. But you 
won’t stamp on me!” 

He remembered the wounded lark he had killed in 
the deserted mechanics’-shed. 

“I have failed you,” he cried in his immense despair. 

Several mot^cars and taxicabs passed under the 
window. 

“Willie.” 

“Yes.” 

“When I was fourteen I went to work as a kitchen 
girl in d’Essantville Castle.” 

He wrung his hands and said, “Yes, I know.” 

“Is that what you meant? Willie, I—I began to be 
a wanton very early, you see, although I knew as much 
about things then as Jonquil does now. But you don’t 
believe that, do you? Please, will you go away, and 
never speak to me again? You are a gentleman, and so 
you will do as I ask.” 

“Eve, I beg your pardon,” he cried, thinking that he 
must remain to protect her with his love against every¬ 
thing very soon. With his love! Had he ever loved as 
the common man loved, the common man of the masses 
he had called blind, who in millions had laid down their 
lives for their brothers? 

She looked at him curiously, then went swiftly to 


AFTER NOON 


449 

him, sobbing, and hid her head on his knees. “Oh, 
Willie, I have been a damn swine to you. For weeks I 
have deliberately tried to make you mad. Do you 
really think I would let de la Hay or Pat make love to 
me?” 

She was beyond his understanding. He did not 
know what to answer, but stared at her dazedly. 

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t know. Why 
shouldn’t you? What has it to do with me? For I am 
the least of men.” 

He took from his pocket the letter given him that 
morning and handed it to her. 

“What’s that? Verse for my straightforward criti¬ 
cism?” 

“Read it, Eve,” he replied gently, kneeling by her 
and taking her hand. “Read it, and do not worry. 
And remember, neither that nor anything else makes 
any difference.” 

He left her, wandering about the house, and climbing 
on to the torrid leaden roof. He sat on the brick cop¬ 
ing, wondering what Mr. Fairfax and the hangdog man 
pulling his bathchair would think if he were to cast 
himself down. Returning through the box-room win¬ 
dow some time later he saw upon a tall mahogany 
wardrobe against the wall a green book that seemed 
familiar. He fetched a chair to reach it. It was Far 
Away and Long Ago, the copy given him that morning. 
He saw, too, the beginning of six uncompleted socks, 
thrown there in the past. Two were in khaki wool, and 
the steel needles were rusted, and all lay amid dust. 
The pair she had begun to knit for him was flung 
amongst them. Returning to the drawing room, he 
saw her still seated on the couch, the manuscript beside 
her. 


450 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“I have read it,” she said, “and it makes my heart 
ache. Poor Peter, poor frantic little kid. I didn’t know 
he was outside last night or I would have asked him up. 
Fancy him waiting there all the time. Did he give you 
this this morning?” 

“Yes” 

“Do you know, when I first met him he was half 
mad over another girl? And you will, perhaps, hate me 
for saying it, but his letter is more imagination than 
pain. To use a vulgar phrase, he was kidding himself 
when he wrote it. He is very highly strung. Half his 
letter is a re-hash of what he has unconsciously ab¬ 
sorbed from magazine stories. And, Billy, he mentions 
hearing what the Smiths, in the flat below, were saying. 
They’ve been away for a week! The flat is empty! 
You see, he is at a period of life when he is neither child 
nor man; I used to think he was a genius unformed. 
O Bill, I hope I haven’t done anything to harm him; 
but I didn’t realize his awful capacity for suffering.” ’ 

He put his arm round her shoulders, telling her not 
to fret. 

“But I can’t help it, Billy. Poor Peter, I wonder if 
he has really gone. He left his book—poor little Peter, 
with his talk of dreams and visions, and poetry. Just 
like you, only he’s a babe—and you, you’ve grown up 
since you came to Findlestone. I’ve put his book up¬ 
stairs, where it will be safe until he writes for it, as I 
know he will want to give it to someone else in six 
months’ time. Oh, I know these lads and their broken 
hearts.” 

“Eve,” he said hoarsely. 

“What frets you now, my dear frowny-head?” 

“Peter White is dead.” 


AFTER NOON 451 

“Dead?” she repeated. 

“He died this morning.” 

“But do you mean it?” 

“Don’t be upset, Eve. He is dead and suffers no 
more.” 

“Dead? How?” 

“Ah, Eve,” he whispered. 

“Tell me! Why don't you tell me?” 

“He shot himself.” 

“Shot himself? But why? Over me?” 

“Don't worry, my dear. You are not to blame,” his 
trembling voice murmured, as he tried to believe that 
she had never known the dead boy in love, as he held 
her close. But she struggled free, and he had to repeat 
a dozen times that he was dead, that he had shot him¬ 
self, that he was a suicide, and with a cry she rushed 
out of the room. He heard her running down the stairs. 

Imagining that she had gone round to her grand¬ 
father's house, he waited at the flat, while Jonquil 
showed him her latest comic paper, which contained an 
instalment of the adventure of her favourite heroes in 
fiction, a boy named Freddie Featherhair and his dog 
Dashatem among the savage tribes of Bohunkaboo. 
But his pretence of interest would not hold, so he went 
into the kitchen and talked with Martha. When he 
told her about the suicide she stood still and looked at 
him, while behind the thick lenses of her spectacles the 
tears dripped slowly from her old eyes. 

“Well, mister, he was always a perfect gentleman to 
me. He took things too much to heart, just the saijie 
as you do. The poor dear was young, and 'ow should 
the young know what us old 'uns know, after 
suffering?” 


452 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“How life beats on us like waves on the stones, wear¬ 
ing them thin. Oh, Martha, I really think it is best to 
be out of it.” 

“Don’t you think that, mister.” 

The tears fell down her cheeks as she stared at him, 
leaning his brow against the cold distempered wall. 

“You’ve had no lunch, mister. Let me give you some 
tomato soup, made with milk.” 

“I’m not hungry, Martha.” 

But she made him drink the soup, and afterwards 
put before him some cold game, which he could not 
eat; he thanked her and left the sniffing old woman. 

Eveline had been round to Radnor Park Gardens, 
where Milly had already heard of the suicide, but she 
had left. Milly showed an hysteria of selfsome pity 
which fluttered against his brain like a moth. 

“What a wicked thing to do. What a selfish thing 
to do. How unthinking! How sad! He was only just 
beginning life. That beastly man Warbeck was the 
real cause of it. He led him into bad habits. Oh, I 
don’t know how I shall ever be able to sing or play 
again. I used to play while that poor misguided youth 
sang. Some of his songs are here in this room. Think 
of it, in this very room! Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, 
Thou art risen, my Beloved, and that shouting thing 
he always insisted on singing, On with the Motley. 
Poor Peter, poor silly fellow. Lina is heartbroken, 
dear gel. And think of the scandal. He may have left 
some letters to smirch the good name of Fairfax for 
ever. Oh, I have no patience with him. But I ought 
not to talk like that. And yet I can’t help it. He only 
thought of himself. Poor father will hear and be so 
upset; you know how religious he is, and—oh, dear, I 
hardly know what to do. I might have to go to the 


AFTER NOON 


453 

inquest. And I haven’t a rag to be seen in—what am 
I saying? Billy, old chap, tell me, what shall I do? 
Ought I to send his songs on at once to his father, or 
wait till he writes for them? What would you advise?” 

“I shouldn’t do anything,” he answered wearily. 

"Of course. How calm you are! But I feel so 
deeply, you know. How I envy you! So cool, calm 
and collected! How I manage to control myself I 
don’t know. I wish Margy were here. Hark, what’s 
that? Is it a policeman, do you think?” 

“It sounded like the kitchen fire being made up.” 

“Yes, I suppose it did. I must get father’s tea. Do 
stop, won’t you?” 

“I ought to find Eveline, Milly. She left the flat in 
great distress.” 

“That so good of you, if you will, old chap. Do buck 
her up. She must not worry. She ought to go away 
to avoid any scandal. She is not at all blameworthy. 
Find her and buck her up, old chap. Kiss me.” 

He kissed the fluttering woman, and left the house 
as Mr. Archibald Dodder, his face an agitated purple, 
entered the gate. “Poor fellow, awful, awful,” he 
puffed; but William hurried away, searching for 
Eveline. He went on the Leas, hastening through the 
gay holiday folk conambulating up and down past the 
bandstand, looking at every face. The crowd was thin 
by the Grand Hotel, and he was about to turn back 
when an unusual figure caught his attention—an old 
gentleman dressed entirely in black, wearing on his 
snow-white hair a hat with an acorn-shaped crown. It 
was Sir Rudolph Cardew, the veteran actor, and he 
walked on the fibrous grass, swinging his monocle on 
its black riband, as though he were on a vast stage. 
William hastened to him to enquire if he had seen 


454 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

Eveline, and Sir Rudolph paused, screwed the monocle 
into his eye, and awaiting him in an attitude of pro¬ 
found and courtly attention. 

“How do you do, Sir Rudolph!” said William. “My 
name is Maddison. I met you the other night with 
Mrs. Fairfax.” 

“Ah, yes, well do I remember our little talk by the 
sea, Maddison. But you are perturbed: may an old man 
who knows you be allowed to say that you are sadly, 
ah, sadly, perturbed by the rumours that surround 
Mrs. d’Arcy Fairfax in connection with the slain 
youth?” 

“Yes, Sir Rudolph, I-” 

“It is well for the world, Maddison, that all young 
men do not feel so keenly. For he has crucified him¬ 
self! The suicide, the self-slain! Who shall know the 
thoughts of the young lover distraught! For him the 
world is dead. That which in the radiance of his lofty 
dreams is more splendid than life is lost for ever. Time 
does not exist for him: there is no future: he cannot 
look ahead. His is too fine a nature to bear the anni¬ 
hilation of its exalted dreams. There is no consolation 
for him. He has looked upon the loveliest in life, and 
rather than have the vision blurred, he takes it with 
him triumphantly to the shades of death. The lesser 
things of life are nothing to the aristocrat of thought. 
Nothing! The aristocrat of thought goes to the guillo¬ 
tine and the cross amid cries of 'Craven!’ ha, and Weak¬ 
ness! and mocks and jeers and cries of 'What is truth’; 
but because his qualities are noble words are less than 
shadows. Ah, Maddison, woe unto they who cannot 
learn to submit to life as it is: to disassociate aspira¬ 
tion and reality! But who am I that my musings 
should be of interest to anyone save an old man?” 


AFTER NOON 


455 

Sir Rudolph looked earnestly into his face, and saw 
that his listener was profoundly affected. Accordingly 
he felt a liking for the young man, whose arm he held 
above the elbow, an honour of intimate equality he be¬ 
stowed upon few men in Findlestone and Piccadilly. 
William walked with him as far as the bandstand, 
where Sir Rudolph turned with an expression of pain 
on his handsome face, saying that he had an ear for 
music. He swept off his hat and with a hand-gesture of 
farewell turned on his heel and sauntered back the 
way he had come. William went to The Paragon, but 
Eveline had not been back. For six hours he searched 
Findlestone, returning to the flat many times. Jonquil 
was crying for her mother and would not be comforted. 
Martha gave him another bowl of soup in the kitchen, 
and he continued the search just as the first star peered 
wanly above the sea. 


CHAPTER IX 


VESPERALE 


Rumour leaping on plebeian tongues had already car¬ 
ried her name throughout Findlestone. The double 
news sheet, badly printed and misprinted, that called 
itself the Findlestone and Rhythe Evening News gave 
a column to the tragedy, hinting that startling disclo¬ 
sures would possibly be made at the coroner’s inquest. 
Meanwhile it would content itself by stating that a 
lady locally well known would probably be called to 
give evidence. The deceased was alleged to be the only 
surviving son of Councilor G. White, C.B.E., of Birm¬ 
ingham, a magneto manufacturer, and was understood 
to be a gentleman cadet at the Royal Military College, 
Sandhurst. He had been staying at the Victoria Hotel. 
There followed various interviews with various people. 
He stuffed the sheet into his pocket, and mingled with 
the crowd on the Leas. 

Ahead of him the outline of the bandstand was 
pricked in silver: roof, spire, pillars, basement; and the 
promenade lights stretched from and beyond it like 
golden oakapples, decreasing with distance till they 
were no larger than yellow mothfrecks on the woad- 
blue foliage of night. People leaned against and sat 
on the wire fence at the cliff top, smoking, chatting, 
and observing the passersby. Below the Leas a vast 
456 


VESPERALE 


457 

open air rink was filled with roller-skating couples, 
from whom were thrown ragged interblends of shadows 
by the four great arclamps at the corners. A rasping 
blare of waltz music was blown across the rink from the 
great trumpet of a stertorophone. The darkling sea 
was smooth and calm, preparing itself for another as¬ 
sault; small wave lines rolled on the beach, breaking 
in the dusk like a sweat lather on dingy horsehairs. 

He hurried to the bandstand, thinking that he might 
find her in one of the seats. A thousand lighted faces 
were before him. Round the cleared space between the 
first rows and the stand he walked, searching, a numb¬ 
ness overcoming him as an intent scrutiny gave no 
sight of her. Back again into the gaily laughing 
strollers on the promenade, while the lighthouse over 
the sea flashed intermittently like the high-shrapnel he 
had watched above the Bapaume road at night; but 
there w T as no war now to which he might go and find 
peace. Past the dark buildings of No. 3 Rest Camp, 
no longer filled with soldiers returning from leave, past 
the bright glowing windows of the Royal Hotel, back 
again to the illuminated bandstand, along the tortuous 
way of the crowded Leas. Fruitlessly to Corvano's 
Cafe Royale, a gulp of coffee while he looked at every 
table, a return to the flat, to Martha sitting with folded 
arms in the kitchen, and to hear her dull reply— 

“She hasn't been in, mister." 

At ten o'clock he heard in the distance the band 
playing the National Anthem, and shortly afterwards 
the blare of the rink stertorophone ceased, and the arc- 
lamps died out. He was then at the eastern end of the 
Leas. So fine was the night, so mothlike the moon, 
that the crowd remained till nearly eleven o'clock, 
when every other golden oakapple became black on 


458 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

the invisible bough above the promenade, as though 
blown down by a wind that suddenly arose off the sea. 
In a few minutes the Leas were deserted, except for 
solitary male prowlers and affectionate couples. He 
continued his quest by the seashore, while the waves 
pounded the pebbles and flung afar the spray. In a 
lull of the wind he heard the cries of migrating lap¬ 
wing; the crests of waves tarnished the silver path of 
the moon on the waters. He scrambled over the slimy 
wooden groins and on the stones that slid and jarred to 
his steps. He had an impulse to swim out to sea till he 
could swim no more; but the thought of her anguish 
killed it immediately. And yet had he known that the 
small planet called the world would flare up in space 
and crumble to ash that night, his despair would not 
have lessened; the shock of cosmic catastrophe would 
have seemed puny compared with the shock of realiz¬ 
ing that beauty was false to its spirit, false to its vowed 
affection, to its words of love. 

Onwards he trudged, the gusts flinging spray on his 
face, his grief seeming to find answer in the cries of the 
lapwing in the windy darkness above. He found her 
just after midnight, sitting on the beach. She did not 
look up; the noise of his steps was brushed away by 
the roar of the waves. She sat still, her head bowed 
and hidden, like a stone mourner graved on a tomb. 
He took her hand, frigid as the pebbles on which she 
sat, and spoke her name. She shook her head. 

“Look up, Eveline,” he said, touching the cold cheek. 

She turned a face white with moonlight and looked 
at him, asking tonelessly, 

“Why do you come near me?” 

“I have been looking for you everywhere.” 

“Why?” 


VESPERALE 


459 


“Because I love you,” he answered. 

“You love me. Don’t you realize what I am?” 

The tone was so flat and dull that he could not 
answer. He thought of her as a bright-eyed child tak¬ 
ing her father his lunch under the hedge, while the 
youths followed the little girl with their eyes. Men 
would always pursue her, because she was beautiful, 
and beauty was only the serf of God. 

“Willie.” 

“Yes, dearest Eve?” 

“I have been thinking that you are very much like 
Someone who said that it were better for a millstone— 
you know, rather than do harm to a child. Oh, if only 
the peasant girl had never left the fields. I learned too 
early that life was hard and that men were—were—I 
became arrogant when I realized that I could make 
men do as I pleased. And now there is a boy who had 
died for love of me—an unsoiled, gentle boy. I am 
evil! ” she wept, clutching his coat. 

“You poor little straying thing,” he whispered, kneel¬ 
ing and taking her in his arms. “Lean that restless 
head against my heart, and repine no more.” He mur¬ 
mured comfort into the chilled ears, while looking up at 
the stars and caressing with his hand the uneasy head 
that would find no rest till joy and sorrow were one 
with death. He felt his heart grow as strong as the 
earth, and was filled with pity for her, for all human 
failure; and sadness grew with pity. 

She spoke his name, and he leaned over to hear the 
small voice. 

“What worries you now, dearest Eve?” 

“I did let him love me.” 

He leaned lower, pressing her hair with his closed 
eyes. 


460 THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

“Only once. I didn’t mean to. When he came in 
such distress into my room one morning after—after 
wandering about all night, and I was drowsy, I had a 
terrible and sudden compassion for him in my breast, 
which changed into—into—I wanted to console him, 
and there was only one way I knew.” 

“I understand, dear one.” 

Listening to the sea he thought of another lying 
there who in the surge of the past night had heard only 
a wave-chant of lamentation and despair. A solitary 
lapwing cried through the dark to the flock it had lost, 
and the pines on the cliff behind made a wild seolian 
music as they told of the rain that surely would come 
with the western wind to heal a land’s disverdure. 

“Look up at the stars, which have rolled away so 
much sorrow and hate, and lift your heart to that 
which set them crushing the gold of pity . . . out of 
darkness.” 

The unheard words were torn out of his mouth by 
the wind and drowned in the toppling crash of the 
combers. He spoke not to her, but to the void above 
and beyond the moving waters. Her head lay against 
his heart so acquainted with grief, and she seemed to 
have fallen asleep with quiet breathing, but wide-eyed 
he sat there. 

The stars on the southern horizon became ruddy in 
the seaborne vapours, and he watched till they dipped 
beyond the world. The wind rushed on. 


VALEDICTION 


The landlady was raking the grate when he returned 
to his lodging. She made a remark identical with the 
one she had made to him twenty-four hours previously. 
He said that he did not want any food, and stumbled 
upstairs to his room, kicking off shoes and getting into 
bed. 

When he awoke it was dark, and mist was over the 
moon. Groping for the jug, he drank some water, and 
went to sleep again, waking into daylight. He shaved 
and washed, went down to breakfast, and was told that 
it was three o’clock in the afternoon. 

“Us didn’t call you, because us thought you was tired 
out.” 

“How long have I been asleep?” 

“Since yesterday morning, sir. Shall us get you 
some tea?” 

“Not now, thank you. I must go out.” 

He returned soon afterwards, packed his bag, paid 
his account and departed, in his sadness unable to 
give any reply save a nod of the head to the landlady’s 
hope that her lodgings and attendance had been satis¬ 
factory. At the station he found he had half an hour 
to wait for the London train. Immediately he hurried 
to The Paragon. 

Jonquil was before the house when he arrived there 
the second time, stooping over a drain, a string held in 
her hand. She was bareheaded, dressed in a corduroy 

46 T 


VALEDICTION 


462 

jacket and lemon socks with brown shoes. She glanced 
up at him and smiled. 

“Quillie’s fishing, Willum, like your father were, with 
a bean.” 

He looked towards the Leas, and then down the 
avenue of limes. “Did mother go out again, Quillie?” 
he asked. 

“Er-hum. I say, Willum, do you think I’ll catch a 
fish. Quillie were fishing here yesterday, but didn’t 
c-catch one. Quillie’s glad you corned to see her. You 
can hold the line if you like!” 

He did not answer her. She looked at his face, and 
saw that he was strange. 

“W-W-Willum, what’s the matter?” 

“Nothing.” Then, 

“Was mother with anyone?” 

“Er-hum. With Naps.” 

“With Naps, Quillie?” he asked slowly. 

“Y-yes, Willum. Mummie was crying, and started 
to go to the trains by herself, but—but Naps corned in 
his moticar. 0 Willum, dear, why do you look like 
that?” 

She put her arms round his knees, and stared dis¬ 
tressfully up at him. He bent down and kissed the lit¬ 
tle face. The love of the linnet-frail girl gave him a 
poignant longing to fade with her into the sun. How 
well could he understand now one of the most home¬ 
less of poets, whose tiercel spirit for so long having 
ranged unmated the starry wilderness, evermore was 
haggard of human love! 

“Beauty is faithfulness, Quillie.” 

From the mortal world of banished hopes his dream 
flew up in the blue-stained air, a White Bird that all 
men should see, and seeing, be comforted. Truth for 


THE DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 4^3 

the world would he seek to his life’s end. If heart cried 
its pain, heart should burn at its own stake till all were 
faithful dust! 

“Willum, you’re not proposen to leave Mummie, are 
you? Don’t go.” 

He looked down on the pavement worn by the feet 
of men, and thought of Eve, and anguish wrapped his 
heart in flames. 

"I must, Quillie.” 

“No, you mustn’t, Willum. Mummie loves you so 
dearly. Honest to God, she does. And so do I, Willum. 

And Marty, and I believe Daddy does as well-” 

She threw away her fishing line. 

“Why are you so strange and—and your eyes so 
big and staring?” 

“O Quillie, love the swallows and the flowers all your 
life. They will make you so happy. And, though they 
die, others will come. Like the lightbringers among 
men, Quillie.” 

“What do that mean? Where are you off to poor 
Willum?” 

He looked at a rain cloud travelling from the west, 
fraught with colour stolen from the sun. 

“Please answer, Willum. To find Mummie? Or 
going away for ever?” 

He made his answer steady, but it was very low. 
“I’m going for ever, Quillie.” 

“W-W-Willum-” 

And kissing her on the brow, he turned away, leaving 
the little child sobbing on the curbstone, her arm over 
her eyes. 

London — Devon, 

November , 1919— November, 1923. 








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